The Ebb and Flow of the Baja Divide

Words and photos by Tom Norman

The desert was awash in golden morning light as I loaded my bike with a dozen litres of water and enough food to last five days without resupply. It would be the longest, most isolated stretch of the route, but with nearly 1,000 kilometres of remote terrain already behind me, I felt as ready as ever. Radiant sunshine, balmy temps, blustery tailwinds, and an all-day descent to start the section off. What more could I ask for? Not much, other than the smoothest dirt road I’d ridden yet! Riding faster than 15 kilometres an hour—for once—had my spirits higher than the gigantic cardón cacti towering around me.

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Hours flew by, as they do when having such fun. I took a mindful breath of the late afternoon air, grateful for how wonderful the day had been. The tailwinds blew encouragingly as I barrelled down the next hill and around a bend. Then—as if on cue—a jolt rippled through my spine as a sudden whapanggg, psshhhhh! erupted below me. I skidded to a halt, took one glance, and let out an exasperated “fuuuckk!” as a wave of dread consumed me faster than the air had just left my tire. Thanks to a rogue rock in the road, I would have to deal with a messy tire wound and a fractured carbon rim in the middle of absolutely nowhere.

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Moment of impact aside, I was hardly surprised. The day had been impossibly good, and I was overdue for some misfortune. I knew this because I was at a point in my trip where the ebb of flow of morale had become as routine as the tide itself. And I expected nothing less. I wasn’t in Mexico riding the Baja Divide because I thought it would be a relaxing vacation. Seriously, could anything scream “ADVENTURE!” louder than a solo bicycle trip through the deserts of the Baja peninsula? I certainly didn’t think so.

To make it even more exciting, the trip checklist included several personal firsts: I’d never travelled solo. Spent a night camping alone? Nope. Visited a Spanish-speaking country? Also no. I hadn’t uttered a word of Spanish before downloading Duolingo at the airport while awaiting my flight. Perhaps wildest of all was the fact that I had never been to a desert.

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Let’s rewind to day zero when my slothful legs carried me unsteadily up the first few-hundred-metre climb. Having hopped a gate to a dirt road “strictly for US Border Patrol,” I was headed up Otay Mountain. For some foolish reason, I’d deemed 1.5 litres of water sufficient for the first section. Big oops. Turn back to San Diego or ration my reserves? I deliberated this while pushing on, eventually stopping at a switchback to rest upon a boulder overlooking Tijuana.

Helicopters circled overhead like giant technological vultures awaiting my demise, and an assortment of trash littered the roadside, to which I paid little attention. That was until I saw it: a full, two-litre bottle of water nestled under a nearby shrub! I cracked the sealed cap, gave it a sniff of suspicion, and took a celebratory gulp that rekindled my fire like it was gasoline.

Although I had plenty of water for the next section, I was much less prepared for the nighttime temperatures that would turn it into solid blocks of ice. After a few frigid, restless sleeps, I pedalled an 11-hour day well past dusk, seeking a ranch to which I had vague directions. Lively Spanish banter emanated from a dimly lit garage as I rolled up the driveway. I hesitantly poked my head in, only to be met with a metaphorical record scratch and abrupt silence. No fewer than 20 people stared at me as I timidly asked if Jaimé was there. They confirmed he was, welcomed me in, and stuffed me with scores of fresh bean burritos.

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Jaimé drove me to his ranch a few doors down the road and then returned to the fiesta. Just as I settled into the comfy couch, the lights flickered, and the power cut out. Many lonely hours passed, and it was nearly 2 a.m. with no sign of the ranchero. His dogs barked relentlessly at something outside while the moonlight cast eerie shadows upon the walls. There I was, in the comfort of a warm home with locked doors, yet somehow I felt more vulnerable than the previous night spent shivering in a flimsy tent to the howls of nearby coyotes. By morning, Jaimé and the power had returned, and a rejuvenating soak in the local hot springs was everything I could have wished for. Ebb and flowwww.

I spent the following week cruising at lower elevations where sweeping coastal vistas, milder nights, and stops to explore fishing camps kept the stoke high. I eventually turned inland again and was on my third day of a rather punishing section when I ran out of food and water. Womp womp. Yeah, again. My repeated knocks on the door of a supposed resupply went unanswered. Desperate for sustenance, I scrounged up my last few cookie crumbs and regrettably drank the only digestible liquid I was carrying: olive brine. With only 30 kilometres to town, I set off again. Well, we set off.

A curious dog had appeared, and with the Spanish word for “stay” absent from my lexicon, he decided to join me. What should have taken two hours took nearly five as we meandered amidst remarkable rock formations and bizarre plants. The crunching of tires on gravel transitioned to a distinct hum as we met the highway, and an immaculately paved nine-kilometre descent lay ahead.

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Despite my overwhelming urge to high-tail it straight to the supermercado, I wasn’t about to let my companion get smashed by a semi-truck. So, on we wearily went, with skittering tumbleweeds humbly outpacing us. Dusk was upon us as we reached town, and the rewards of countless snacks and cold drinks never could’ve tasted better. I said adios to my sidekick as he wandered off with some other street dogs, and I was beyond stoked to have a hot shower and a comfy hotel bed. My tide was high once again.

The days of enduring hunger, dehydration, or temperature extremes were far outnumbered by those spent yearning for better roads. Don’t get me wrong, monster-trucking over the chonk and chunder of a canyon-bottom arroyo is fun for a bit, but after 50 kilometres, those feelings evaporate as quickly as a puddle in the desert. When not clambering my way over wobbly rocks, I was just as likely found in the soul-sucking depths of sand. Yeah, a plus tire at 8 PSI helps, but lurching and walking through long, loose stretches sure had me tempted by the SOS button on my InReach.

Sounds pretty gruelling, doesn’t it? While I can assure you it was, the rocks and sand weren’t the worst of it. When dry, clay is a treat to ride on—but it becomes a crippling sludge when wet. Aptly named death mud, it is amongst the most brutal road conditions I have experienced anywhere, ever. In one especially miserable case, it took me several hours to cover two measly kilometres in the pouring rain. I could hardly drag my bike 20 metres without stopping to clear fistfuls of muck from my locked-up wheels and shoes.

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Flinging mud about like a monkey and its poo, my only respite was shouting expletives heard only by the hawks and the hares. However, I was deep in the territory of type-three fun, so I knew conditions were due to improve. And that they did—dramatically. The sun’s rays burst through the clouds, and the sticky clay abruptly changed to pristine gravel. A ripping descent led me to a desolate highway, and I cheerfully rode straight along the centre line for the final hour to town.

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Although the Divide caused me much turmoil and struggle, it wasn’t without an abundance of rewards. How could I care about being groggily awoken by the patter of rain on my tent when it promptly passed, unveiling a flawless rainbow? Boundless stretches of arid desert were in stark contrast with the fertile, palm-laden oases between. Breathtaking landscapes dotted with otherworldly flora were a perfect distraction from horribly chapped and burning lips. The sudden tension of rattlesnake encounters swiftly faded with the onset of cotton-candy sunsets.

Crackling campfires beneath a billion twinkling stars were well worth plucking an equal number of spiky goatheads from my tires. Yapping dogs nipped at my panniers on many occasions, but I got a good laugh one time when I turned to discover it was a horde of Chihuahuas. How about headwinds so ruthless that I had to get off and push along flat ground? Nothing but a distant memory as I wandered the streets of a charming and colourful town later that day. I’d become totally enamoured with this bikepacking wonderland, and there was nowhere I’d rather be.

Among this heap of rewards, one—much to my surprise—eclipsed all others. Of the many bikepackers I met, some were fleeting encounters, and others flourished into lasting friendships. I spent weeks trailing one new friend who provided invaluable updates about the route ahead. He deserved every drop of the beers I shared when I eventually caught up and met him in person. Although riding alone was incredibly liberating, having human companions for a couple of sections was a welcome change. Like resilient desert plants weathering hardship together, these new connections became deeply rooted and blossomed through better moments.

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Take the joy of stumbling across an idyllic swimming hole in the middle of the desert as one memorable example. Refreshing indeed, but what’s better shared than food? Once gifted a bulging bag of fresh homemade churros, they became twice as delicious when devoured as a team. But the tastiest treats of all came from befriending a master bikepacking chef; pineapple salsa lovingly roasted over the embers of a seaside campfire sure beat the cold bean burritos I’d been subsisting on for weeks. But of course, there was more to do off the bike than stuff our faces. When daydreaming about this trip, I never once imagined myself aboard a panga with four new friends, getting splashed and misted by wild grey whales. It was an experience made all the more surreal by getting to actually pet them.

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While friendship was the pinnacle of reward, it was well-balanced by an utmost struggle. Remember that explosive tire mishap I mentioned? Well, six tubeless Dynaplugs took care of the tire, with a liberal application of Shoe-Goo and a few strips of Gorilla Tape being the best I could do for my cracked rim. Miraculously, this repair job held for nearly 2,000 kilometres of rugged desert riding until the plugs were leaky enough to demand a tube. Five kilometres is as far as I got before it was slowly seeping. I aired up hourly until I reached town the next day.

Having lost all faith in tubes, I stitched and booted the tire and was back to tubeless. I expected this would hold for the 300-kilometre section ahead, but I didn’t even make it 10 kilometres—and all on asphalt this time! My attempts to plug the failed boot were fruitless. Tube it up, or turn back now? I regrettably chose the former and proceeded through the infamous burning garbage dump into the desert, vigilant in avoiding shrapnel and thorns alike.

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The following morning, I’d made it a whopping 50 metres from where I pitched my tent when I smashed my rim on a rock yet again. My last two plugs couldn’t quite seal the new snake-bite puncture, which felt almost as lethal as an actual rattlesnake bite. I hopelessly walked my bike all morning while the sun’s fiery rays tormented me further. A car stopped to offer me a warm, half-empty beer as if to mock my pessimism. “No, gracias.” I walked, and I pumped. Again and again. Insanity is when you do the same thing over and over, expecting different results. But for whatever reason, the 47th time was different.

By some chance blessing, the plugs had sealed. I checked my GPS, hoping the upcoming spike in elevation had also magically disappeared. It hadn’t. Feeling completely spent, I stopped at a ranch and tried to persuade the ranchero to drive me up the daunting climb in his massive 4×4 truck. Alas, he wasn’t even willing to accept my 600 peso bribe, insisting the road was too rough. Too rough for that truck? Yikes.

Once paved to prevent washouts on the steep grades, this sad excuse of a road was now a mangled staircase of asphalt slabs coated in fine rubble. Without a whisper of wind to cut the sweltering heat, I pushed up in nothing but my underwear and Crocs. What a relief it was to finally reach the top and pedal my first kilometres of the day.

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I’d love to say it was all downhill from there, but I was adrift in a thorny labyrinth, and there was no escape. With three fresh patches healing my tube and an untold number of tiny thorns meticulously tweezered from the tread of my tire, I called it a night. It felt like minutes had passed when my 5 a.m. alarm rang out, pleading with me to cover some ground before sunrise. Although I was more afraid of a hissing tire than a rattlesnake by that point, it took less than an hour before my fears became reality; my tire was squirming once again.

With no more patches, plugs, sealant, or tubes, I went on in an all-too-familiar, 10-minute cycle of ride, pump, repeat. By 9 a.m., the temperature had already soared to new highs. I pumped my thousandth stroke of air into the tire, feeling sorry for myself. I looked back at the pathetic progress I’d made and noticed some semblance of a vehicle shimmering in the heat waves. Sounds of clanking and sputtering grew nearer, and—it was no mirage—a tattered old pickup missing a body panel rolled up.

I doubted this truck had a better chance of making it out of there than I did, but I took the gamble, and they accepted my plea for a lift. We wound our way through treacherous canyons and barely made it up a 20% pass with our spinning tires struggling for grip. An hour of rumbling over brutal washboard roads finally saw us out of the desert, and I accepted that it was all over. Like an insidious death by sinking sand, my tire woes had finally conquered me.

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The mantra “Baja giveth, Baja taketh” was coined by one new friend, and although it could not be stated better, I’ll still try: Type-two fun is to the Baja Divide as sand is to the desert, but ultimately, type-two only makes type-one all the more fun. I gradually fell into harmony with this ebb and flow during my two-month trip, and its rhythm never faltered. While those final days in the desert were less than 10% fun, the following week spent hanging out in La Paz sure made up for it. Sugary snacks, snorkelling with sea lions, and sharing stories with friends were all I needed to head home on a high tide.

So, was it worth it, despite being unable to finish the route? Would I do it all again? Recommend it to others? Yes, yes and yes, without the slightest doubt. It was a profoundly liberating experience that has left me with a voracious desire for many more like it. Baja holds a special place in my heart, and I can’t wait to return to finish that section and ride the final Cape Loop in cooler months.

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