That's My Story

FORWARD THROUGH A REAR VIEW MIRROR

Published originally in Western Outdoor News the week of March 17, 2007

The great radio journalist Paul Harvey once wrote a piece about dirt roads. With apologies to him if I paraphrase and dig out parts from memory, he wrote that people were just different when they were on, near or lived near dirt roads.

He said values were different before the dirt was paved. Back in the day, dirt roads taught you that despite the teeth jarring, mud and dirt, life could be a little bumpy. But everything would be OK if at the end of the road, there was either a warm home, a dog, a fishing hole or some place to fish.

There was no street crime before the road was paved. Drive by shootings? I don’t think so.

Dirt roads taught you patience. No one tailgated. You could only go as fast as you could go and you took the time to look at things around you and see where you were.

You got closer to your family, friends and neighbors because of that dirt road. You didn’t just zip to the movies or store. You talked. You actually conversed. You depended on each other.

Early on when I first started running our fishing biz, I wore many hats, metaphorically speaking. We all did. We all still do. When dollars/ pesos are short and you don’t have a staff, you do what needs to be done.

So, back in the day, I cleaned boats; made breakfasts and lunches; cleaned the fishing gear and washed wetsuits. I sharpened the hooks. I fixed flat tires. I made beds. And many times, I drove. And I drove.

I would drive our anglers down 10 miles of Baja road twice and sometimes four times a day down to the beach where our pangas waited. All their gear, ice chests and bags stuffed and packed as well as could be.

But let me tell you about that dirt road.

It was the archetype of Baja roads. It suddenly appeared at the end of the pavement. It just started and off it went. There was nothing gradual or subtle about the way it started or how it treated you along the way. It could be brutal.

In some spots it was little more than a one-laned burro path where a four-wheeler would be better suited. Mini-arroyos (gullies) marked the way and pockmarks were the rule rather the exception. Sandy in some spots, but more often rutted with kidney rattling washboards, the road ate tires, rims and suspensions on a regular basis. We had running jokes about nuts, bolts and screws that simply shook loose from places we didn’t know had nuts and bolts!

The abandoned carcasses of other unfortunate vehicles cannibalized for parts and left to oxidize in the Baja sun could often be seen among the arid parched cactus groves covering the route as far as the eye could see. Emaciated cattle, horses and burros, those icons of the Baja desert, were as much a part of the road as the heat that would sometimes rise off the road in waves.

And there was no escape from the dust. From start to stop we choked on the dust and heat. Our vans had air-conditioning only because we drove fast with the windows down!

And we jolted and careened and bitched about it. More often than not we laughed along the way; sang with the radio; told lots of bad jokes and there was always one guy in the back who ate too many frijoles that made everyone’s eyes burn or roar with hilarity. In the rearview mirror, he was always the guy I could see grinning.

In the mornings, there was always the excitement and anticipation of what the day would bring. On the way back, there was more laughter and stories and lies to be told of big ones that got away.

Four family guys, pals since high school, ribbed each other with locker room humor. Dads would sit a little taller talking about their kid’s first catch. Junior would beam. A retired couple joined the conversation with fish stories from “before Cabo had a marina.”

An older father and son would sit back in their chairs and listen to the stories and clink two cold beer bottles together. They nod and smile and savor a special day that had nothing to do with the fishing. And a bunch of dusty, sweaty strangers crammed into that van were now making plans for tacos and beer together that evening.

And one day they started to pave my dirt road.

The first “installment” was a huge chunk. In each successive season, the asphalt creeps closer and closer to the beach. Now only about 200 yards remain to the waterline.

And with each successive encroachment of highway, I see the telephone poles moving along side. Some areas have street lights. Say it ain’t so!

There’s a real estate sign. Someone is laying a foundation with cinder block. Barbed-wire fencing along much of the way now prevents me from accidentally warndering onto someone’s “Baja Estate.” And our vans are now air-conditioned and hermetically-sealed.

I miss that old road. I miss the Baja dust. We bonded and made some of our best friends on that dirt road to the fishing grounds “back in the day.”

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