In Loreto, I discovered the firehouses. Firemen often have extra beds at their stations, and seem to be very friendly to gringos biking and talking about climate change. I stayed with the friendly bomberos (Spanish for firemen) in Loreto before heading south, following the road first along the shore and then southwest across Baja.
   Southwestern Baja is a large coastal plain, where a number of crops are grown by pumping water from deep underground. Fields of corn grow strangely next to fields of cacti.

   Stopping at a gas station, I met Rafael, who owned both the store and a small herd of goats. In exchange for a short English lesson, Rafael let me watch while he killed and gutted a young goat. I think Rafael got the better end of the deal.
   I stayed with the firemen in Ciudad de Constitución, where I watched a Jakie Chang movie dubbed in Spanish. I then rode two days back southeast across the peninsula to La Paz, the largest city in southern Baja.

   At the suggestion of a local, upon arriving to town, I went to the local news. In less than an hour, without a shower, I was live on television, answering questions about bicycling and climate change.

   I am in La Paz now, where I will be for a few days trying to hitch a ride on one of the yachts sailing for the mainland. I am staying in the extra bunks with the generous and extremely friendly local firemen. The fireman sleep downstairs because, as they say, the upstairs is haunted by their former chief, who passed away 4 months ago. After saying words of appreciation for the generosity of firemen, I have slept comfortably upstairs, by myself.

   Leaving Guerrero Negro early on the 22nd, I biked two days across Baja to the town of Santa Rosalia, an old mining town, which, like the rest of Baja, is full of United Staters. The scenery has changed as I have ridden farther south, with the mountains becoming more abrupt (including some volcanoes), and the vegetation turning into tall cactus forests.

   Baja California is one of the places in the world where bicycle tourists congregate. I have seen cyclists from Holland, England, the United States, and Mexico biking the peninsula and carrying camping gear. Cylists are still few enough, though, that it is exciting to talk to every one I meet.
   The next two days, Christmas Eve and Christmas, I rode with two Mexican cyclists, Áaron and Rick, who are professors of electronics at the University ITESM in Cerétaro. We celebrated Christmas Eve and morning on a beach looking across Concepcion Bay, where we cooked dinner, shared biking stories, and then proceeded to teach me Mexican slang.

   I am now in the town of Loreto, where I met with the director of the Loreto campus of the University Autónima de Baja California Sur. This campus specializes in eco-tourism, and students are to learn about the natural areas surrounding Loreto. As it is vacation time, I did not get to meet with any students. I did, though, talk with the director, Sam Salinas, about the problem of obtaining water in Baja California. I will revisit this topic, and how it relates to climate change, in my next entry.

   The past week has been a long ride through northern Baja, camping on roadsides in sparsely populated places.

   Leaving Ensenada seven days ago, I charted a course east across the peninsula to avoid traffic on the main highway. As I biked across Baja’s mountains, I was struck by two items ubiquitous on the roadside: crosses marking where a driver has lost his or her life, and trash. A strange, common site is a cross with trash littered at its base. The trash is disgusting, but the crosses make me uneasy, and I watch every car that passes me in the rear view mirror.

   After two and a half days, I arrived in San Felipe, a small town on the Gulf of California that is a strange mix of a Mexican fishing village and an American beach-front real estate market. Signs proclaim, in English, new lots for sale or under construction while most people in town speak no English. The people I talked to said they liked the influx of Americans, as they said it provided work. I cooked my dinner on a vacant lot overlooking the sea, and, when the near-full moon rose, took off south again on my bike.

   Amazingly, I soon ran into Brando, Eloy, and Juan, three teenagers from San Felipe on their ‘first ever’ bike tour. With backpacks they had purchased two days ago and bikes they borrowed from one of their fathers, they were out to camp for the night. I tried to convince them to ride to Argentina with me, but they decided to stop only a few miles down the road, where we camped, built a fire, and taught me Mexican slang.
   The next three days, south of San Felipe, were slow hard days on a poorly maintained, little used road along the rocky shore. The second of these three days, five cars passed me, and I camped with a hitchhiker from Ohio who failed to get a ride and had walked all day. The third day, only one car passed me as the road climbed into the mountains. On the second and third day, I averaged 5mph.

   Rejoining the main highway, I have coasted two easy days south, enjoying pavement and a tailwind. I am now in Guerrero Negro, in the state of southern Baja California (‘Baja California Sur’), where I have just washed my clothes and enjoyed a shower.

   After a week of preparation, I left San Diego at noon on Saturday, riding east through hilly suburbs. I took inland roads to avoid the busy highway along the coast near Tiajuana. As night came, I camped off the side of the road so that I could cross the border the next morning.

   Bicycles, it seems, are not stopped when traveling into Mexico (see movie on the left), and I felt just a little silly for waiting for a week to get my passport. Biking through Tecate, I noticed immediately that Mexicans use far less gas per person than Americans – every car that passed me had at least 3 or more people sitting inside.
   Biking the dry hills south of Tecate, I passed through many small and fairly uninhabited valleys before reaching a valley of vineyards near the coast. As dark approached, I asked local residents if there was a place I could pitch my tent. Julio quickly invited me to stay at his house, which he shares with his wife, daughter, and parents, and which they built themselves 20 years ago. They spoke no English. My Spanish is rapidly improving.

   The next day was a short ride to Ensenada, where I checked the internet to see which school I was going to visit (from email), and then biked to Centro Educativo Patria. Afterwards, the prinicipal as well as the partial owner of the school (they are married) generously invited me to stay at their ranch. At the ranch, although they only recently purchased a refrigerator and use electricity sparingly, the family lives well. They make their own wine and olive oil, laugh often, and managed to feed a hungry bicyclist extremely well.
   I am fearful of the number of postcards/thank you cards I will have to send down the road….