ROADS ONCE TRAVELED

From Western Outdoor Magazine submitted Oct. 15, 2007


It’s probably not the smartest thing to do especially in the Baja, but I like heading down dirt roads or hiking down some unmarked trail. You never know what you might find.

I say it’s not the smartest thing to do because they don’t call this “la Frontera” (the Frontier) for nothing. Even in the best conditions, on the best roads, down the best marked trails, one wrong turn, a busted axle, a slip-and-fall, and there’s a thin line between a nice day and a crisis. Even when the sun is shining, the sun can be the worst enemy in an arid land where water and shade or lack thereof can be deadly.

But all that aside, common sense, notwithstanding, I’m always fascinated by what might be over the next rise our around the other side of something else. I like seeing and finding what most people won’t see.

It can be as simple as a sunset or sunrise or some new vista from a different angle or new colors on sandstone cliffs or seeing new shades of blue on the Sea of Cortez. Just another Kodak moment that could not be seen from the busy highway.

But, I am especially enamored of finding hidden places where someone, sometime in the wayback of time tried to carve something out’ve this rugged place. It might be an old grave. It could be the remains of an old adobe wall or what’s left of an old bar with just a few scraps of wood stuck in the dirt that marked the remains of someone’s dream.

I look around and there’s not a piece of shade to be found. I see no source of water or other visible means of sustenance Good hunting? Good fishing? A farm? There’s nothing but baked granite, cactus and lizards as far as the eye can see. A 100 –year-old way station?

There’s no road here. What the heck were they thinking? What were their plans and why was it abandoned? Who’s bright idea was this to build a house in 100 degree weather in the middle of nowhere? Did they die and no one ever find them? Did they just give up and move away? Did the natives decide to pay a hostile house call? Parts of the place are wood. There’s no trees for miles.

I dunno. Real people not too unlike you and me with dreams and ideas took a shot and it didn’t work out and it’s intriguing to stand on the same grounds that they might’ve walked and wonder.

And then, there’s the churches and missions.

If you ever want to step back in history, step into an old Baja church. Not all of them are still standing. In my hiking and wandering down the occasional dirt road, you run into what’s left. Some adobe. Maybe the remains of an old steeple. Maybe even a wall or two with a step that once lead to the promise of salvation, but now leads merely into the timeless Baja desert. But it’s a church just the same. Again, you ask, “Why here?”

The best examples are to visit the old standing missions themselves. No, not the ones still in the center of town like La Paz or San Jose del Cabo, and certainly not some of the beautifully restored missions in California that are as much tourist centers as places of worship.

Instead, head up near Loreto. Turn off the Transpeninsular Highway. Put it into low and hit the dirt and go up into the Gigantes Mountains. Feel a bit like Marlin Perkins on those old Mutual of Omaha trips or like you’re on a shoot for National Georgraphic. It’s literally another world the higher you ascend the mountains. Baja takes on a whole different perspective from altitude.

It’s not much more than a dirt trail more fit for goats than vehicles, but the long slow journey up the mountain will find you up in San Javier and it’s namesake mission. Look back down from where you came and the Sea of Cortez lays like blue cobalt below. The air is cooler and not as heavy, but the sun still rains mercilessly down. It’s been almost a decade since I was up there, but the trip took me back centuries.

Mission San Javier was no dolled-up mission like you find in north-of-the-border complete with gift shop and grammar school, swallows and strolling mariachi. San Javier is a 300-year-old piece of granitic art straight out’ve central casting and an old Magnificent Seven movie where the bandoleer- laden horsemen ride out’ve the hills every month to exact tribute in the form of corn and cattle from the locals.

It’s almost like a hidden sanctuary tucked between sheers cliffs and surrounded by mountains in a little cleft fed by a stream, the small village of San Javier and surrounding tilled fields and orchards. The steeple 5 stories above the valley floor has watched time roll by.


Talk about stepping back in time, some folks still rode burros. Barefeet and huarache sandals were the local fashion statement and not many cars were seen. In fact, I was told that many folks didn’t have electricity. But this was not a poverty-laden place. Folks lived up in the hills and came down to visit the shady dirt streets and little white-washed houses often having no doors or window glass. Chickens shared the little streets with kids and dogs. Flowers grew and the fragrance of fruit trees mingled with home fires cooking tortillas.

But it’s the church that draws you to it and, is indeed the center of town. No need for air-conditioning. Walls are thick as the pyramids and a coolness permeates the entire structure.

In fact, it’s not only cool. It’s dark. Other than the light of dozens of candles and small slat windows high above the sanctum’s floor, there was no other light. Actually, the walls were a dark patina from ages of burning candle smoke that had coated both walls and ceilings. Candles made with the same beeswax and in the same way as they had been in the early 1700’s when San Javier was in it’s infancy, blinked from smoke encrusted bottles and candle holders in front of prayerful images of saints.

Still, even in the dim lights, your eyes are drawn up to the huge beams supporting the cavernous roof. Your eyes are pulled to the magnificent altar that has all the ornate qualities of a European cathedral. There’s no mistaking the gold that coverers everything.

But this is where you take stock. You’re high up here in the mountains. In the 21st Century you are still in the middle of nowhere. Hernando Cortes sure didn’t schlepp those beams up here. Some schmuck of a conquistador in armor and leather wearing riding boots (Nike cross walkers weren’t around then), hauled these beams from who-knows-where because there sure aren’t any trees up here capable of wooden beams this big. Like all laborers and enlisted men, the poor shmuck probably grumbled about the long days and his immediate superiors.

Worse yet, some local native, has been convinced, under the guise of salvation, that it’s his duty to the Church and the sovereign Spanish crown to truck these beams and other accoutrements of the church up this God-forsaken rock mountain. As we found out in later history, “salvation” sometimes came at the end of a lash or at best a swift boot to the behind. Local natives were probably motivated less by King or Pope as much as the lash or boot.

As I was to find out later, the huge stones that make up the cool walls of San Javier were quarried and hauled from 20 miles away. This in the day before, Humvees, Home Depot and Trucks “built Ford tough.”

Real men hauled cut these things by hand. Hauled them by hand. Set them by hand. Me and the neighbors, all with college degrees in engineering have trouble building a simple retaining wall.

The altar, vestibule and sacramental ornaments weren’t just picked up at the local religious store or ordered from a catalog on the internet. Piece-by-loving piece they were brought from Mother Spain by way of Mexico City. Those 400 pound statutes were carted on someone’s back or the back of some beast of burden. Some with two and some with four legs.

And of the friars themselves, human frailties aside, history has disclosed that despite their robes, they were often cruel taskmasters and spiritualists. Remember, this was the time of the Inquisition in Europe. People were burned at the stake for being witches; having evil eyes; being Jewish; or for any infractions deemed seditious to the all-powerful church.

Yet, here they were in rough robes and sandals toiling to create something out of nothing and to bring the European concept of salvation to a native people who had their own way of thinking and doing. Right or wrong in their methods, many ended up as martyrs. Often, their remains are buried beneath the stones of the inner sanctuary near the altar.

However, in this very church, you wonder how many padres had worked and what hardships they endured. On these very altar steps, how many marriages had been performed in 300 years and how many baptisms and funerals had been presided over.

For there is always the church cemetery. Most names have worn off. Wood has dried and broken in the dry winds of the high desert. But stone remains and you can trace the generations of families that called the San Javier Mission and this town their home. Like me, they may have drifted down another road at various junctures in their lives but they all came back here to rest in the shadow of the old mission up an old road most never travel.

I DIDN'T KNOW THAT!

Originally published the week of Oct. 22, 2007 in Western Outdoor News


Whenever you go to another country or immerse in another culture even for a few days like on a fishing trip, there are certain things that you just would never know unless someone told you. This is even more true if they speak a language different than your own.

I’ve been down here almost 15 years now and there are so many things that I learn that I would never have figured out.

So, let’s me put some things under the category of “Did You Know?” Whether true or not, I’ve been told by enough of my local friends that there’s some validity to them. For instance…

When you drive down a Baja road and come up behind a slow driver. He puts on his LEFT turn signal. It blink and blinks. Drives you nuts. The first time this happened to me I was behind an old bus on some mountains roads south of Ensenada. I was cursing the driver, his relatives and his whole family lineage for making me think he was making a right turn. As I was to find out later, whenever the driver in front of you does that, it means, it’s OK to pass! Of course check to make sure, but it’s an awful nice gesture! I DIDN”T KNOW THAT!

This could well be urban myth, but when you drive through most Mexican cities, almost every building has re-bar sticking out of it. The whole suburban skyline looks like it has a punk rock haircut of rebar poking out of roofs and walls.

Well, I was told that you do not have to pay property tax on buildings until they are completed. As I understand, the re-bar poking out is evidence that your 50-year-old building still has a bit more construction coming. So, stay away Mr. Taxman. Never mind that the building was built when Pancho Villa rode the streets. They surely do intend to add a second story floor! Honest! An archaic law leads to a blighted skyline. I DIDN”T KNOW THAT!

Americans on vacation like to walk around without shirts. We go to markets. We walk in bars. We go right into restaurants. We like to show off our bodies-by-Bally Fitness. Or NOT. We have no problem pulling off ours shirts anytime, anyplace. Well, walking around shirtless in public places is right up there with walking down the street in a speedo. Just not done. It’s bad form. It’s bad manners. Americans are good at that. I DIDN’T KNOW THAT!

Speaking of bad manners here’s one that causes my local friends to chuckle a bit. When Americans gesture to someone to come over we loosely extend arm with our hands palm-up and motion towards ourselves by rapidly bending the fingers towards ourselves to say, “Come here!”Bruce Lee was famous for doing it before he nailed someone with a kick to the head.

Well, in Mexico, doing that gesture, especially with the right hand is the one you use for uh…sanitary purposes. It’s just not done among proper people. I got my first lesson when I was driving and gestured for someone at an intersection to give them the right-of-way. My passenger explained to me why the occupants of the other car were laughing at me.

The proper way isto partially extend your arm and to turn the palm down. Make a motion with the fingers bent towards you and pulled towards your palm like a cat pawing the litter box. I DIDN’T KNOW THAT!

Tipping is good. Tipping with American coins is worthless. Dropping a handful of quarters on your bellman at the hotel doesn’t do him any good. I know. I live in a hotel and whenever the staff gets coins, they come to me to give them paper money. I’m the Bank of Jonathan and because Mexican banks do not accept American coins, local merchants do not accept them so your bellman or taxi driver can’t do anything with it. You might as well have given him or her a rock. I DIDN’T KNOW THAT!

Finally…At the end of a great meal, Amercans tend to lean back, pat their tummies and say, “I’m full. “ (Estoy lleno.) In Mexico, I’m told that’s not quite right. The comment begs the question. Full of what? Gas? Should we exit the room? Are ya gonna blow?

You could get away with saying this after pounding down some bean burritos with the boys or your fishing captains, but best not said in mixed company or anyplace in Mexico where they have real napkins and a tablecloth.

The proper Ms Manners Mexico dining guest says, “I am satisfied” (Estoy satisfecho). Or, “That was tasty!” (Era muy sabrosa) while patting their tummies. I DIDN’T KNOW THAT!

I’ll pass on more in another column. Have a good week!

That’s my story. If you ever want to reach me, my e-mail is riplipboy@aol.com.

DON"T RUB YOUR EYES OR SCRATCH YOURSELF AFTER USING!

Originally Published in Western Outdoor News the Week of Oct. 16


OK, don’t start sending me e-mails and letters telling me I’m Mr. Bad Guy or calling me an animal hater. Especially since you’re the one reading this column in a huting and fishing newspaper.

However, like a lot of fishermen, I have a problem with pelicans, seagulls, sealions and other critters that take my bait and my fish.

Yes, even here in Mexico, they are a pain in the nalgas. It’s even worse when they start to take the baits and fish from my fishing clients. Personally, I can tolerate the banditos most of the time and can fish around them, but when they start hammering my clients, it becomes a personal thing!

By golly and por los santos, we can’t let that happen!

Lest you think otherwise, I grew up like any other kid of my day. Dirty face and fingernails; pants torn at the knees; and a wrinkled t-shirt were the uniform de jure in my neighborhood and I was never far from my pile of rocks and dirt clods; BB-gun or slingshot.

There’s something comforting in having your hand rest on the plastic feux-wooden stock of a Daisy Rough Rider BB-gun and having a tube of fresh BB’s in your pocket or a handy-dandy wristrocket slingshot and some marbles in a bag.

I will admit too that I took deadly aim at pretty much anything that moved. Fortunately, I was better at shooting immobile targets than living things. Although I did hit an occasional crow, but most projectiles just bounce off those tough birds and the crows just look at you.

Later on, I did learn to do some hunting, but looking back as a youngster, I probably shouldn’t have been shooting at neighborhood wildlife that was merely minding it’s own business. But, especially 50 years ago, that’s what little boys did and I was every bit a little boy like many of you reading this.

But, fast forward to my fishing days and there are certain critters out there that do NOT mind their own business. It’s one thing to be a little sparrow sitting in my backyard harming no one.

It’ quite another to be a sealion that steals a tuna and then has the nerve to wave it in my face and toss it in the air with glee! It’s another thing to be a pelican or seagull and repeatedly dive bomb my precious bait.

The hunter-gatherer returns!

In the day, I rarely left on a fishing trip without a hunting slingshot and some ball bearings ready to beat away the marauding hordes! Again, it’s fortunate I have bad eyes and never actually hit anything, but at least I felt armed and I could shake my fist at the little buggers and rage against their dastardly habits.

In truth, I never really wanted to hurt them. It just felt better shooting something in their vicinity like a warship firing a warning shot across the bow! I just wanted them to go away. I wanted them to leave my fishing alone and go bother someone else’s boat!

It was one of those days when a kindly and remarkable captain in San Jose del Cabo showed me a secret many many years ago. I say “remarkable” because most captains you run into, especially years ago, would just as soon kill anything that became a pest.

I had fished with Captain Jesus before and he knows that I always carry some pretty potent hot sauce with me in my tackle box or ice chest. A couple of drops of habanero sauce could do wonders for fruit, potato chips, ham sandwiches and boxed-lunch burritos!

On this particular day it was the Battle of the Gordo Banks. We were being hit from above and below. Birds everywhere. A sealion seemed to shadow us no matter where we moved. Our baits barely hit the water before a horde of squawking seabirds descended on it.

Captain Jesus took out my little bottle of fire salsa. He took some dead sardines and coated several of them with the green condiment and tossed them as he would dead chum. The birds did what birds do. They couldn’t gobble them down fast enough!

I have to admit it was pretty entertaining to watch them shimmy and shake and flutter as the spice hit them. Some just sat in the water quivering not sure what to do! Some tried to take off with a bait but half-way in the air nose dived into the water. Some did what some people do. They stopped and pooped…massively! Most of them backed off!

Next came the sealion. Captain Jesus took a slab off a discarded bonito he kept on the deck. Again, a generous coating of super-duper habanero sauce! Nex time Mr. Sealion came by, the bonito slab was tossed. The big dog immediately turned and gobbled it as it lay on the surface.

It didn’t take long!

Fire in! Fire out! It came flying up yelping and flipping around the ocean and porpoising through the waves and as far away from our panga as it could get. That’ll learn ya! No more problem!

And it surely beat using more drastic measures with no one getting permanently hurt. No guns. No nets. No slingshots. No sealbombs. No poison. Just a 75 cent bottle of Mexico’s best habanero sauce!


That’s my story. If you ever want to reach me, my e-mail is riplipboy@aol.com.

PRESENTATION IS HALF THE BATTLE!

Originally published in Western Outdoor News week of Oct. 9 , 2007

Maybe you’ve heard a fishing pal yank your chain a bit and tell you, “To catch a fish you have to think like a fish!”

Easy to say. Funny to hear. Ridiculous to apply…or is it?

It’s not so far-fetched if you give it some thought into getting into a fish’s head. You would think that with our fat craniums that can put a man on the moon we’d have the advantage over our piscatorial quarries who have brains the size of a splitshot sinker. The fish are surely overmatched! Ha!

Still, they seem to outsmart the majority of us more often than not. So kicking up your success rate with fishing means figuring out what’s going on in the fish’s grey matter!

Presentation is half the battle.

Consider your own eating habits. Good food is good food Bad food is bad food, but food that looks good, even if mediocre sure helps! That’s probably why fast food and coffee shop food is so popular. It’s not the best chow on the planet but put in the correct surroundings with a little garnish; a pleasant waitress; clean plate; some crayons on the table; good fragrances emanating from the kitchen; and a cook that doesn’t look like he also picked up the garbage in the alley goes a long way towards enticing us to eat!

Same with fish.

It’s not just the taste. It’s the whole sensory package so your presentation is often the critical issue, especially if the fish are touchy. If the bite is WFO and they’re eating everything except the paint off the boat, no need to read further! But enhancing the presentation can give you an edge when the bite is tougher, touchier or you just want to catch more fish than the next guy.

Take your hook size. For example, all you have for bait is a 6 inch sardine. All of a sudden, several striped marlin appear. Sure, you should probably use a big forged 8/0 hook, but if you stab your little sardine with a huge hook, that little ‘dine probably isn’t going to swim so well. Use the largest hook you think you can get away with but still keep your boat looking like something Mr. Billfish wants to eat.

Likewise with line. Again, there are trade-offs to be made.
Remember that your small bait already has a hook stuck in him. Now he’s on the end of yards and yards of line that you feed out. Line is heavy. Line is stiff. Try pulling a bunch of wet rope through the water. It’s tiring.

As you feed more line and the longer that little bait stays out there, the more tired it gets. It’s not swimming so well anymore. He doesn’t look so good anymore to a gamefish compared to another bait nearby that’s lively and energized. Go with the lightest line you can get away with , but be careful of using line that’s so heavy your bait might as well be pulling a chain. Change your bait often. Keep your bait looking good.

How you pin your bait also affects it’s attractiveness.

Several things to consider. Fish, generally always swims forward. So, pinning a bait in the butt or on it’s backside then slow trolling it drags it backwards. Quite an unnatural swimming motion, not to mention you’ll kill the bait. Same with putting a lead on the line. Except for a few exceptions, the lead will also drag your bait backwards or keep it swimming irregularly. Best on both occasions to pin your bait through the nose. In both situations, a nose hooked bait swims better and looks better.

Finally, let’s talk about smell. Again, this is an important part of your presentation. You know yourself, that food that smells good sure goes a long way to getting those neurons in your brain saying…EAT! EAT! EAT! Conversely, when food smells bad, it can be perfectly good, but you surely don’t want to fork it into your mouth. In fact, usually if it smells bad, it is bad.

Old timers will tell you that smell is just as important to fish. These days they make all kinds of scents to put on your baits and lures. Some actually add a “fragrance” like shrimp or anchovy or somesuch. Others “mask” the human odors we just normally impart to everything we touch either because we pick it up or else it comes with our human oils.

But, I was taught long ago, that even being careful about what you touch can go a long way. My hand that touches bait does not touch my burger. It does not touch other oily things like motor parts. I do not scratch my face with it or use that hand to apply sunscreen.

If I do touch something, I immediately “re-stink it” by crushing a dead bait in my hands or washing it with soap and water (if available) then getting the soap scent off with whatever is handy like an old bait or some commercial scent. The point is, I get the unnatural man-made scents off my hands and do not touch anything that might affect the fish’s appetite!








That’s my story. If you ever want to reach me, my e-mail is riplipboy@aol.com.