Chaos and Charm in San Ignacio
San Ignacio, Baja California, isn’t exactly a bustling metropolis. If you’re looking for a whirlwind of activity, you’ll be disappointed—but if you’ve got a taste for quiet adventure, this little desert outpost has just enough to keep you occupied. On any given day, you could wander the Zocalo, the heartbeat of every Mexican town, picking up souvenirs from local vendors—handwoven baskets, quirky trinkets, maybe a Baja 1000 sticker to slap on your gear. Or you could step back in time at the mission, a sturdy relic built by the Jesuits in 1723, its weathered stones whispering stories of a bygone era. There’s a small museum nearby, too, packed with artifacts that trace the region’s history, and if you’re feeling ambitious, you could venture out to the ancient cave paintings etched into the cliffs. But the real draw, if you time it right, is whale watching. Between December and April, gray whales—some stretching 45 feet long—glide into the lagoon just beyond town, close enough to greet from a panga boat. For now, though, the lagoon’s quiet; the season’s still a month away.
The Zocalo itself is a sight to behold. A dozen towering trees—stately, sprawling giants over 100 feet tall—cast dappled shade across the courtyard. Planted and tended by the Jesuits centuries ago, they’re likely pushing 200 years old, their gnarled branches a testament to resilience in this parched land. Nearby, the Kukamana indigenous people run a modest tourist shop, where $100 buys you a voucher for a panga ride out to meet those whales when they arrive. The woman behind the counter assured me it’s worth every penny—45-foot behemoths breaching the surface, so close you can hear their breaths. I’ll have to take her word for it until next time.
We rolled into town after a long day’s ride, dusty and famished, and the Rancho Grande Grill welcomed us with open arms. The food was a revelation—grilled fish tacos bursting with flavor, smoky carne asada, and salsas that danced between spicy and sublime. The service matched it, warm and quick, the kind that makes you feel like a regular even on your first visit. We bunked down at the Hotel La Huerta, a cozy spot with a laid-back vibe, and after dinner, we ambled next door to Edson’s Ice Cream Shop. The homemade ice cream was a treat—creamy scoops of vanilla and mango—but the real star was the date shake, blended with local dates so sweet and rich it felt like dessert and breakfast rolled into one. The walls were plastered with Baja racing stickers and maps, a shrine to the off-road legacy that pulses through this region. I snagged a T-shirt to support the local racers, a small token of solidarity for the daredevils who’ll tear up these roads in the upcoming Baja 1000.
At 5:30 the next morning, with the sky still bruising purple, I found David outside the hotel, restless and ready to move. We decided to explore San Ignacio on foot, tracing its dirt roads and quiet corners. The town unfolded like a faded photograph—decrepit buildings from 1927 and 1929 leaned against the dawn, their crumbling facades marked by time and neglect. Stray dogs slept in the streets, too weary to stir as we passed, and a few goats nibbled at the hotel’s trees, keeping the branches tidy. Wild horses roamed the lot next door, their manes catching the first light, while a pitbull with a collar trailed us back to the hotel, playfully tussling with the resident mutt before trotting off. It struck me as we walked: would I feel this at ease wandering a strange U.S. town on a first visit? Doubtful. There’s a raw openness here, a lack of pretense that’s both disarming and freeing.
My laundry’s another story—it’s piled up over days of riding, a sweaty mess that might need fumigating before I cross back into the States. I’ve gotten savvier about it on this trip, though. Past rides taught me the hard way: let dirty clothes mingle with clean ones, and soon you’re sniffing socks to figure out what’s wearable. This time, I’m keeping them separate, a small victory in the chaos of the road. Speaking of chaos, we’d blasted through a 200-mile stretch of Baja earlier, averaging 94 mph, the desert blurring past until someone—probably Joey—called for a pee break. That’s when I noticed my rear tire. It’s worn nearly to the cords, a grim reminder I’ve still got miles to go before home. I waved the others ahead and dialed back to a saner pace, nursing the bike along.
That’s when I spotted what looked like a migrant caravan—about 150 people trekking along the roadside, decked out in REI-grade gear, hiking poles clicking against the dirt. Curious, I pulled over and asked a Mexican guy what was up. He explained they’re on a 150-mile walking mission to the mission in Bahía de los Ángeles, a pilgrimage through punishing terrain. A 25-mph headwind kicked up as we spoke, and I was half-tempted to park my BMW and join them—until I remembered my tire. Meanwhile, trophy trucks worth half a million bucks rumbled past in the opposite direction, their crews prepping for the Baja 1000. At times, the wind forced my bike into a 45-degree lean, a balancing act that kept my pulse racing.
Joey’s back in the saddle today, Montezuma’s revenge finally behind him, but the road wasn’t kind to everyone. Three bikes went down: one with a rock-punched hole in the oil pan, another—a BMW GSA 1200— sidelined by a busted battery terminal, and a third BMW stalled due to operator error (not me, I swear). Yoda Greg sprang into action, plugging the oil pan with two-part epoxy from Harbor Freight and sourcing a new battery from the town’s tire shop. The man’s a wizard with a wrench, thriving when chaos strikes. Yoda Roberto’s no slouch either—between them, they’re the glue holding this ragtag crew together.
GPSKevin’s cat, Cacalaka, is proving his mettle as a seasoned traveler since leaving Loreto. The hotel dog, Blackie, sniffed him out this morning, and they struck a truce: as long as Cacalaka departs—by van, bike, or caravan—he’s welcome to stay visa-free. They’re both Baja originals, living by their own rules. In two days, we’ll cross back into the land of the free and the brave, where regulations loom large, though we’ll pick and choose which ones to heed.
Most folks vacation in the same predictable spots year after year, craving the comfort of the familiar. Not us. This group of 14 riders, stitched together by GPSKevin, thrives on the edge of our comfort zones. Every day brings fresh challenges: Where’s Nick with the room keys? Are the drinks and snacks ready? And the big one—did I draw a snorer as a roommate tonight? On the road, peril’s a constant companion. A cow could dart out and take one of us down—an inglorious end courtesy of the local fauna. Yesterday, Roberto nearly collided with a trophy-sized ram charging down a hillside at a 45-degree angle. He thought it was fleeing until physics and Baja’s wild sense of humor nearly brought them face-to-face.
Back home, we’d obsess over controlling the unknown—checking the latest news, keeping everything tidy and predictable. Not here. The past seven days have been a glorious mess, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. If only I could get some damn Wi-Fi to send this story home.
Trawlercat
Trawlercat Chronicles 