My Backyard: Baja Baptism (Hooked on the Outdoors 2005 Jul (Vol. 7, No. 3))

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My Backyard: Baja Baptism
By Tom Bie
2005 Jul (Vol. 7, No. 3)

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I moved to California last year. To Southern California, no less, home to smog and too many Hummers and an awful lot of asphalt where grass used to be. It was intimidating for a diehard Western river-lover like me, especially coming off more than a decade of trout-chasing in the Northern Rockies. How could a guy who thinks tiny Wilson, Wyoming (population 200), is the greatest place he ever lived possibly find refuge among the 3 million residents of Orange County?

When I arrived, the answer was visible from my back porch—the Pacific Ocean, biggest wilderness on earth. Soon, I became infatuated with the rich near-shore fisheries from Dana Point to San Diego. I went to every used bookstore I could find and started reading all the saltwater classics. (There’s barracuda here? What’s a bonito? How big do they get? What’s the difference between a yellow fin and a yellow tail?) I became as excited about fishing as I ever have in my life, a life that’s included stints in great trout towns like Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and Steamboat Springs, Colorado.

And always there was Trask, an 80-pound child of the Rockies who’d outlasted every one of my roommates, relationships and river trips. Like me, he seemed surprisingly happy in SoCal: The joy of catching snowballs slowly gave way to the laid-back lifestyle of chasing sticks in the surf. Even his aging joints seemed more at ease with the California climate than they had been in the dry and relatively steep landscape of Colorado.

While I sometimes missed the feeling of casting dry flies into a riffle of feeding ’bows, fly fishing is about discovery: new fish, new water and new ways of enjoying old water. Trask and I both relished that excitement you get the first few months you move to any new place. I didn’t pee on any trees, but we still shared the same goal: Explore. So whenever I felt the pressure of too much California crowding in, I’d just push my kayak into the surf, paddle out beyond the breaking waves, and cast something tasty-looking into the swell. And one of the treasures of sit-on-top kayaking is that you can take your dog with you.

As pleasantly surprised as I was with the SoCal fishery, the real intrigue pulled at me from just beyond the border—that 800-mile stretch of heaven-on-earth known as the Baja Peninsula. I only knew it through slightly mythic secondhand accounts. I’d read the writings of Ray Cannon and listened to countless contemporary tales of dorado and roosterfish on the fly. But what I’d never before realized about the places in those stories was that most people reached them in one of two ways: They either flew way down south to someplace like Cabo or La Paz, or they took a six-month road trip down Baja 1.

But I didn’t have six months. I didn’t even have six days. What I had was my dog, a sit-on-top kayak, a copy of Kelly and Kira’s The Baja Catch, and one Labor Day weekend to see what all the fuss was about. That was back in September. It’s April as I write this and I’ve now made seven forays to Baja—primarily to the 100 miles of remote coastline on the northern Sea of Cortez. Not only does this region offer superb fishing from a kayak, but, with the exception of the occasional dirt biker, there is a surprising absence of other people here, especially considering the proximity to the major population centers of Southern Cal.

Of course, there are reasons for this. First there’s the road, which deteriorates rapidly south of San Felipe, eventually disintegrating so badly that travel beyond Puertecitos averages 15 miles per hour. Secondly, the heat frequently hovers around 110 during the summer months. The third and fourth factors are of particular concern to the small-boat angler: The tide and the wind. During periods of full or new moons, the tides in northern Baja can fluctuate by as much as 20 feet during a six-hour period, creating dangerous currents similar to those in a fast-flowing river. Lastly, and most importantly, are the famously strong winter winds that come barreling across the peninsula, rendering the Sea of Cortez excruciatingly unsafe for small-boat travel. I’d read stories of motorboats caught too far out when the wind kicked up, about how the gusts would come on so sudden and so powerful that the swells swallowed up even full-size wooden pangas.

Last February, Darren, an old high-school friend, and I were on one of these forays about three hours south of Puertecitos. We woke to calm skies at 7 a.m. Even with relatively few Baja trips under my belt, I knew the rule: If the wind isn’t blowing, go—because it’ll be blowing soon. So Trask loaded up and we launched into calm waters, proceeding to take a few small bay bass and triggerfish.

The triggerfish is a strong fighter and, as anyone who has ever tangled with one can attest, it takes a while to bring one in, especially on light tackle. The toughness of triggers also requires some effort to get the hook out, especially with an always-interested canine getting his nose in the way from his perch just inches behind my seat. After a half-dozen battles with these fish, I looked up to see that we had drifted an unsettling distance from shore. Feeling a not-so-slight breeze starting to build, I casually suggested to Darren that we reel up and head closer to the beach, where we could work the small reef in front of our camp. No sooner had we turned to head in than the gusts started building.

Sit-on-top kayaks are basically built to offer three things: stability, comfort and a place to hold your stuff. What they are not built for is traveling quickly into a 30 mph headwind with an 80-pound lab dragging his wet ass off the stern. I am an experienced paddler, but when one powerful gust pushed me broadside to the wind, every ounce of my energy could not turn me back in the direction I needed to go. I found myself in the middle of a rapidly deteriorating situation, and briefly contemplated the idea of turning out to sea and heading for one of the islands six miles offshore.

But I had neither the water nor the strength to pull that off, particularly with the surrounding whitecaps getting bigger by the second. Besides, as the waves grew and the winds got stronger, Trask got increasingly unsettled. It became nearly impossible to keep him sitting down. And I just couldn’t bear the thought of losing him to the sea halfway across a six-mile open-ocean paddle.

So I bent over with my head down as far as I could, kept the nose facing into the wind, and tried to use the current to my advantage. Darren was fighting his own battle to the north. Entering one of those memorable panic/calm cycles, I told myself not to overreact, but I was trying desperately not to lose my dog in these increasingly unfriendly waters. I dug in with everything I had for 50 straight strokes only to look up and wonder whether I’d gained even an inch. “You cannot stop to rest,” I told myself. “Not for a second, or you will lose everything you just spent the past 20 minutes to gain. Dammit! This is so stupid! How did I let this happen? I’ve spent a lifetime outdoors—in far more dangerous places than this. I should know better!”

I was angry with myself. A distance that should have taken 20-25 minutes to cover had already taken over an hour and the gusts kept building. Then things got worse. The bow started to get pushed in a direction I didn’t want to go, and in the process of trying to rudder us back into position, the combination of a pushy current and an overpowering gust merged at just the right moment to flip the boat.
I lost everything: two rods, reels, camera, shoes. And Trask. Both my dog and I were in really rough water, still a long ways from shore. I screamed for him with the full force of fear in my voice, but, with his survival instinct firmly intact, my dog lost all memory of our nine-year friendship in about three seconds. He was flying toward shore and it took me almost a minute to decipher what he’d already figured out: The current could save us both. We’d move faster in the water than on it. So with the lab unloaded, I half swam, half paddled the rest of the way in. Darren had also managed to reach shore, and when we saw each other we laughed that nervous laugh of a close call that went our way.

Admittedly, I’d been caught off guard—danger just feels further away when you’re basking in the southern sun than it does when you’re slogging through a northern whiteout. I was literally blown across the rather thin line separating casual fun from careless predicament. But luckily I saved my kayak—because of course, the only thing worse than capsizing in the ocean would be not having a boat to go try it again.

Interested in your own Baja adventure? We suggest you first find yourself a copy of Neil Kelly and Gene Kira’s The Baja Catch: A Fishing, Travel and Remote Camping Manual for Baja California (available on www.amazon.com or at local SoCal fihsing shops). It’s the best Baja tome you can buy, including everything from secret spots for beach camping to fishing maps to Spanish for fishing.