Baja Divide

Baja Divide - Day 17

January 11, 2025 28°6'14" N 113°20'14" W to Vizcaíno - 62 Miles

Start 7:15 AM Pacific

Finish 2:36 PM Mountain

Total Duration 6:21

Moving Time 5:32

Stopped Time :49

Ascent 840’

Descent 1,834’

Tour Total 791 Miles

Details at: https://ridewithgps.com/trips/247179371

I slept well again in the heart of the Baja desert, making it through the night without needing to "water a bush." The cold outside discouraged me from even venturing out to brush my teeth. Coyotes howled persistently, tempting me to use earplugs, but after the moon set, a serene silence blanketed the desert.

At 6 AM, dawn’s light roused me from sleep. My pack-up was orderly and efficient. I savored hydration tablet water and cookies for breakfast. Camped at 1,200 feet, I noted the absence of condensation in my tent and no wind stirring as I struck it down.

I had camped discreetly about 100 feet off the road behind bushes and cacti. A car passed by during setup, likely unaware of my presence, and another drove past while I was in the tent. In the morning, I followed my winding tracks back to the road, starting the day by walking my bike through soft sand.

This stretch was one I'd anticipated with concern from the start—a 7-10 mile section of unridable sand after El Arco. With tires too narrow for the terrain, I opted for a detour along a gravel road to Highway Mex 1, doubling my mileage but sparing myself the agony of a long trek through sand in sandals.

The morning air was cold. I could have easily enjoyed the warmth of my stowed jacket as well as long fingered gloves which I didn’t bring. A Toyota SUV passed, kicking up a plume of dust, and soon after, a pickup truck hauling an empty livestock trailer followed in my direction.

By 8 AM, I reached Pozo Alemán after 5 miles of riding and crested a ridge to see a settlement of white buildings in the distance. I bypassed El Arco’s center, linking up with the gravel highway that stretched toward Highway Mex 1. While the route was officially 30 miles, my detour added up to 55 miles—but I hoped it would be faster overall.

At some point, I crossed into Baja California Sur and transitioned to Mountain Time. The change left both my devices and me uncertain about the correct hour, adding a layer of disorientation to the journey.

The gravel road allowed me to maintain an average speed of 10 mph, despite persistent washboards forcing me to stick to the roadside. After climbing a small ridge, a vast, flat plain stretched before me, framed by distant gray mountains. At 8:30, I paused to shed my long-sleeved shirt and eat some cookies, having covered 11 miles with 22 remaining until the paved highway.

The next 25 miles were straight and level, though littered with loose gravel and relentless washboards. I watched my odometer tick by slowly. From three miles out, the utility poles along Highway Mex 1 came into view. At the junction, an abandoned gas station stood like a silent sentinel. The wind had picked up, offering me a much-appreciated tailwind toward Vizcaíno.

At 12:15 PM, I reached the highway and now shared the road with fast-moving motor traffic, though a modest shoulder provided some space. Five miles in, I stopped at a deposito in Ejido Laguneros for a Powerade. The tailwind continued to push me forward, making the highway ride surprisingly pleasant.

The landscape shifted as I passed a sprawling greenhouse operation flanked by tree-lined property on one side. A few miles later, I rode through Francisco J. Mújica, where school buses plied the highway.

Highway traffic revealed a mix of North American overlanders—RVs and motorhomes towing Jeeps with bicycles strapped on the back. One motorcycle, towing a trailer with a large dog crate, proudly displayed two Mexican flags. The rider honked as he passed.

On Vizcaíno’s outskirts, I rode by a bright orange hotel and spotted another sign for lodging. A distant cell tower marked the horizon as I neared the town center, weaving past restaurants and local businesses. I eventually stopped at Hotel Real Vizcaíno, where 500 pesos secured a comfortable room—a far better deal than the subpar one in Rosarito and a fraction of the price I paid in Bahía de los Ángeles.

The hotel’s proprietor recommended Mariscos Ruby across the street for food, and there I enjoyed some of the best ceviche I’d ever tasted. Back at the hotel, I laundered my kit, resupplied for the road ahead, and edited this report. It was a welcome change to be in a town, enjoying a bit of comfort before pressing on.