Reblogged from Baja Moto Quest:

Sometimes the stars and moon line up just right and the perfect adventure unfolds. An adventure that can never quit be repeated and is fondly remembered for the rest of your life. That was the case back in the late 80s when a group of us camping in Playa de Estero decided to head further south, down the Baja Peninsula, to the legendary fishing holes surrounding Abreojos.

It was common knowledge among anglers that those waters were teeming with fish. A friend who had returned that spring claimed the fishing was so good, in those mangrove bays, that you could throw your car keys in the water and catch a fish. But getting there was another story. Everyone had heard the stories of the road down. It was said to be so rough and lonely that a break down could leave you stranded for days. But we had seen the pictures of beautiful bays and beaches with no names, and fish as big a VW bugs. We had talked for years about going, so finally, decided to pull the plug and go.

This was a remote spot on the Pacific about half way down the Baja coast. We poured over maps to refresh our memories of the roads and trails that crisscrossed the Vizcaíno Desert. Our excitement grew as we checked our gear and got our vehicles ready, making shopping runs to REI and Squidco. We packed and re-packed to get things just right.

As the word got out at what we were planning, our little group of fishermen grew to a small expedition of friends who had caught the fever to go. So after much anticipation, one dawn found us and our assortment of rigs headed down the world famous Transpeninsular Highway, Mexican 1. We were a rag-tag array of trucks pulling or car topping boats, packed with camping and fishing gear, and food and beer aimed to last several weeks.

All went well until we left the pavement late in the afternoon and started down the dirt road that crossed the Vizcaíno Desert towards the Pacific side of the Peninsula. It was slow going as we made our way through washes of deep sand and climbed rutted hills scattered with cactus and loose rock. We often had to have someone walk ahead of the trucks to help pick the safest route. Sometimes, we reached forks in the road and would have to guess which seemed the most traveled. This did not always work. Many times we found ourselves either lost or at the entrance gate of a rancho, greeted by a group of surprised vaqueros.

We traded for gas with the ranchers, siphoning it from 55 gallon drums through chamois cloths. The senores made us enchiladas made from goat cheese exhibiting Baja hospitality that is all but gone in these days of better roads and growing tourism. I remember an uncle of mine once saying the better the roads, the worse the people. I have found that to be true more often than not.

Late one afternoon, I remember stopping to check a section of the road when I noticed the strong smell of gasoline. Upon examining my truck, I saw a large damp spot growing from underneath. I realized a rock had kicked up between the skid plate and tank. The road had been so rough that it had vibrated a hole clear through. Gas was dripping out at an alarming rate…

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