Category Archives: San Juanico

Dusty Tracks and Desert Greens

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I dreamt about the rabbit.

The large jackrabbit to be exact. The one who has been mowing down my corn, chomping off the recently sprouted stalks, and strewing leaves across the rocky soil. I sprinkled wolf piss around the base of the rows, and it’s slowed him down, but I don’t trust the solution to last. Today, the corn and squash/melon patch will be enclosed with small animal fencing. I don’t mind sharing, but I have my limits.

In the dream, there were footprints everywhere. Rabbit footprints on the couch, the bed, the sheets. Across the floor. A trail of dusty tracks, as if he’d even moved into the house.

The garden is part of a community project for sustainable living. The ultimate goal, spearheaded by my neighbors, is to have a network of at least 26 vegetable gardens in our tiny pueblo of San Juanico. While in college, I’d had a backyard produce garden that provided for six of my neighbors, so a program of sharing what is grown feels right at home.

Early in the afternoon, I had removed the netting from the vegetable bins to allow the birds to help me deal with an invasion of cutworms that were gnawing their way through the carrots and lettuce. The birds must have been watching me, the black-chinned sparrows and the cactus wrens descended onto the freshly turned earth as soon as I stepped away. Their small beaks made fast work of my refuse. Worms a delicacy in the dry arid desert.  

The dream startled me awake. My mind racing with thoughts of the rabbit, about the unprotected produce. The lure of lettuce. Enough so, I went out with flashlight at 3am, but no rabbit could be seen. The lettuce, of course, is already spent, so not really an issued. Bolted, and lifting its flowery heads to the sun. I’m waiting patiently to collect their seeds, which I’ll use in the fall for the next crop. But in my sleepy state, I imagined it vanished, like a 5-course meal and a very stuffed rabbit unsuccessfully trying to hop away.

Morning light, coffee in hand, I trudged outside to assess the damage. There was none. My dream had been for naught, or possibly a future warning? What my approach did do was to startle the feeders. Mr. and Mrs. Quail and a pair of tiny cactus wrens had taken to the bin to assist in pest control and continue the worm consumption. No food sources go untouched in the desert.

I found myself thinking about historically how man has moved into wild-lands, filled them with tasty treats – green crops and animal herds, like cattle and sheep – and then been furious, that the wild-life decides to feast on the buffet laid out before them. The wolves and coyotes, akin to kids in a candy store, delighting in such delicacies, and then poisoned or trapped or shot for doing what comes naturally.

My rabbit, well, he’s cute in a big-jackrabbit kind of way, and I have no intention of harming him, no matter the struggle over my garden. I’m just going to help him not be so teased. Or at least, I’m putting a more defensible barrier between my crops and his taste buds.

The Look of Love

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Update on osprey love story and nesting development.

First, they need a new architect. This nest, well, the truth is, they’ve never finished the nest. My guess, and I’m only an observational scientist, is that they are likely two-year old birds, at least the male. He has definitely chosen a nesting site, made an honest attempt to attract a mate, found a willing female, and then wasn’t quite sure what to do next. The photo above is either a look of love, or a look of “I don’t know, do you?”

Second, it’s VERY late in the season for mating. While other nests have hungry chicks demanding constant nutrition, ‘our’ birds (my neighbors deeply involved in what has been a challenging love triangle), come and go, more like dating than mating. Although they do coo (if you can call an osprey call a coo), neck a bit, as in rubbing beaks, and spend some afternoons simply hanging out together.

Male #1, who Ii will give a name, has certainly secured his nesting site. He is present in the mornings, brings his fish breakfast or lunch back to sup on site, and occasionallly adds a stick or piece of seawood to his abode. Afternoons, he’ll call until the female shows up and then they just sit for a while, watching, always alert to the surrounding sounds and activites.

Male #2 continues his attemps to usurp the nest. When the pair is together, he will fly in, swoop down on them, ‘glare’ from the neighbors attention perch above, and do his best to disrupt the romance in progress.

As I type, Male #1 has returned with a fish and is hard at work consuming his lunch. The drama of the love saga and the joy of watching certainly interferes with my other ‘work’, as I can’t seem to stop watching. I love getting to know them, identifying their unique characteristics, and learning their behaviors, all by observation. It’s the best kind of science I can imagine and hugely rewarding.

Osprey Nesting Journey

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For two years, the osprey platform remained empty. A gift from my contractor, a wooden platform with a couple of randomly placed sticks perched above a tall phone-pole like wooden stand to attract the sea-hawk raptor. My belief was that the structure had been placed too close to the water, the hunting grounds for all the other waterfowl, too close for any bird in its right mind to choose as a nesting site. At the start of year three, I had it moved farther back on the property, and still, no takers. Plenty of nests in town, huge looming collections of sticks, ropes and gathered seaweed, but my platform remained bereft of bird.

And then, he appeared. A long male who one day arrived with a stick. One stick, and deposited atop the wooden structure. You could probably hear my ‘whoopee’ on the other side of the pueblo. Day after day, for hours, he sat and waited, chirping in hopes of attracting a female. Slowly, he added a few more sticks. Some dried seaweed bulbs. Some green grasses. He’d return to the nest after hunting, large fish in his talons and settle in for his meal. Each time he spied another osprey, his calls rang out across the terrain.

And then, she arrived. A slightly larger-then-he female who perched on the side of the nest-to-be and seemed to be waiting for him to make his move. He flapped his wings. He vocalized. He had her in his sights when another male showed up, and took a position on the neighbor’s weather antennae above the potential nest. Male #1. as I had grown to call him, seemed beside himself, confused as to what was more important. Chase off male #2 or get to creating a marriage with Female #1.

Eventually she grew tired of waiting and flew away. Male #1 was back to solitary. Less time on the nest, but still, but he did add a few more sticks. A bit more seaweed. Lunch and dinner of his catch. Always vocalizing his shrill call whenever another osprey entered the neighborhood.

And now, two weeks after her initial visit, Female #1 has returned. She’s decided to spend more time on the platform. I have yet to see her bring her own nesting materials to what might be her home, but I remain hopeful.

I’ve spent much of early spring fixated on nesting cameras of bald and white eagles across the USA landscape. From Big Bear Mountain in southern California to U.S. Steel in Pennsylvania, a cam in Traverse City, Michigan and elsewhere, the laying of eggs, the hatchlings, the loss of chicklets, an almost consuming watch of eagles has only whetted my appetite for an experience up close and personal on the platform at the edge of property.

Bring on the baby osprey!

Look more closely …

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Hidden in the crevices of the flat reef faces, tiny crustaceans create art-like patterns, akin to indian wall art, which at first glance appear to be small stones or heavy grains of sand. But a closer look, and an entire ecosystem reveals itself. Communities gathered together in the shelter of cracks in the rock surfaces.

The discovery, made during a morning meditation walk, reminds me that things are not always as they seem. That my assumptions might cloud my ability to perceive, and that to question and explore will gift me with new insights and knowledge.

The Rise of Wave Pools: Surfing’s New Frontier

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A day with no swell ….

Sometimes there are waves, and sometimes, not so much. Nothing quite as entertaining than a group of surfers after days of a no-show swell, sitting around grousing, as if the ocean gods were punishing them.

Of course, we’d all love a consistent flow of rideable fun surf, but then, would we truly appreciate the wonder when the waves show up? When we can say to ourselves and our friends, “That sure was a fun session!” or “What an epic wave!”

To solve the problem (ha) of fickle surf, wave pools are springing up across the country and the globe. This past week, a long board competition was held in Abu Dhabi on perfectly formed mechanical waves. I watched in wonder as wave after wave challenged the contestants, not to pick and choose a wave, but to demonstrate their skill sets, back to back on exactly the same surface and faces. You can watch a replay of this contest here: https://www.worldsurfleague.com/events/2024/lt/313/abu-dhabi-longboard-classic/main

I was trying to wrap my head around a wave pool in Saudi Arabia, https://www.surfer.com/news/wave-pools/20-years-making-kelly-slater-abu-dhabi-wave-pool, created by Kelly Slater, whose first pool, “The Surf Ranch,” set the bar and started a trend toward mechanically produced perfect waves. The technology to create the waves can alter the shape and size for different types of acrobatic performances, from a pro-level “WSL Competition,”to a famiily beginner called “Waikiki.”

Kelly Slater Surf Ranch

There are wave pools in Palm Springs, CA. https://palmspringssurfclub.com/, South Korea, Australia, England, Switzerland, Japan, Brazil and there is even a wave pool in Ewa Beach, Hawaii. https://www.waikai.com/wai-kai-wave-oahu, which seems almost counterintuitive. I mean, isn’t Hawaii the homeland of surf?

Palm Springs Surf Club

Aside from yet another man-made attempt to upstage nature, these mechanically formed waves are changing both the nature of surfing as well as the location. As of this moment, research indicate that there are 346 mechanically generated wave pools either open, under construction or in the planning stages across the globe.

While Slater opened the door with Surf Ranch, the creative minds hungry for wave experiences outside the ocean continue to push the mechanical door. While Surf Ranch and Abu Dhabi use a one-of-a-kind soliton generating hydrofoil to displace standing water, other technologies include turbine driven pushed water which creates ‘standing’ waves, akin to what. one might find in a river, a plunge technique, currently found at Surf Lake in Australia, and an air piston system, like the one found in Palm Springs.

The sticker shock for the bulk of these waves will limit most action to professional surfers intent on honing their skills. Hourly rates begin around $50USD for group sessions of beginners, and rise from there. Surf Ranch can be rented for the day for $70,000, or a daily per person rate (at 10 surfers) for $5K to $7K, a sure indication of the exclusivity for the best wave creation and the most individual opportunities. Wave costs at Wai Kai range from $175 per session for the 100-foot wave, $140 per session for th 65-foot wave, and $90 per session for the 30-foot wave. Multipack discounts are available.

Wai Kai Wave

I was lucky enough to enjoy a session at Wai Kai, and found the standing wave to be challenging and fun. Several crashes and a couple of successful rides, and i gave the pool over to the kids. I still prefer paddling out into the deep blue sea, but for some family fun on discounted days, and training grounds for tomorrows (and today’s) pros, the possibilities seem endless.

Lucky Catharine Cooper on Wai Kai wave in Ewa Beach, HI.

New Year’s Day, 2024

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Dawn breaks with low hanging grey clouds and the persistence of a westerly swell that has blessed the eastern Pacific shoreline for nearly a week. Surfers up and down the coast have relished the opportunity to put their skills to the test in unusually large 10’ to 20’ foot waves. Boards have been broken, thousands of photographs taken, and adventure tales fill bar stools, dining tables, and campfire circles. The stuff of legends.

Here in southern Baja, we’ve traversed a full moon, listened to the waves thunder through the night sky, and woken to corduroy lines marching from the southwest.  Temperatures in the 70s. Water temps in the 70s. Dogs frolicking on sand stretches and out dirt roads. Heron fish the shallows, eyes fixed on tiny fish caught in the tide pools. Overhead, osprey soar, dive and shred their fish catch on my planted perch, talons and beak ripping the often still twitching soon-to-be-carcass. Nearby, vultures wait on fence posts for droppings, their task, cleanup.

The desert wastes little. And here, is definitely desert. Native vegetation stands between toe-high and knee high. In a few arroyos, errant scrubby near leaf-less trees might stand taller than 5’. Wind pushes plant life flat. Dormancy runs the long season now, dry until the summer rains. Plant life pulls inward, much like bears hibernating in far-off snow-covered dens.

My dog and I head late to the beach, having waited for the tide to recede and expose white sand. He runs and runs, long ears flopping, tail wagging. Sticks to find and beg to be tossed, and then chase and the game begins again.

It’s a new year. No resolutions, this woman, only looking forward and reminding self to pay close attention to each and every day. To increasingly open my heart, to make sure I tell those around me how much I care for them.

Already, one day is nearly passed. Only 364 left.

How will you spend yours?

Before the Storm …

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A storm is brewing. As yet unnamed, but gathering itself together off the coast of Mexico. A hot swirling mass of clouds, interacting, trying to figure out how best to work with one another. What to become? Forecasts now 90%, the chances of becoming a tropical depression, and then a hurricane. Trajectory to skirt the western edge of the Baja, snaking alongside the coastline all the way into southern California. El Niño beginning to clearly show his face.

There’s an anxiousness associated with incoming storms. A tingling in my fingertips. A slow building race in my heart rate. The unknown unsettling. The questions that remain, unanswerable. The timing. The where. The force and power of the wind. The probable amount of rain.

Preparations: Secure the property. Move outdoor patio furniture indoors or garage it. Relocate anything that might become a projectile. Check food supplies. Water. Propane. Flashlights. Candles. Satellite phone. Board games or jigsaw puzzles for the duration. Hope that the hurricane glass doors and windows perform as advertised.

Again, the unknowing.

We desperately need rain, so a part of me screams, bring it. The desert begging. The dry and desiccated cardon and tarote shriveling downward in response to seven years of drought. Here in southern Baja, it seems feast or famine. Too much water, too fast, turns dry arroyos into raging rivers. Shuts off vehicle access. Blessed water pours from the sky, and no place or way to store the same.

NOAA Hurricane Center checked multiple times per day. The waiting.. the waiting …

Arrival

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Contemplative drive, east coast to west. Baja.

Land cloaked in lingering green, a gift from the last summer storm. The monsoons give this region water, and now that season yields to dryer fall and winter months. I ponder how much the jagged cliffs of the Sierras remind me of areas in northern Arizona, and how the current verdant carpet, like Maui.

A few cows nibbling on roadside grasses. Small families of darting goats. Horses set free to graze.

Cara-cara feast on road kill, competing with vultures. Crows glide amongst them.

Morning sunrise on the Sea of Cortez begins the day. The chatter of terns one to the other echoing across a glass-like sea surface. Raucous gulls join the symphony, and behind them, the platoon of pelicans, diving in formation to capture sardines.

Evening sunset on the Pacific. The shifting of coasts, of colors. Sunrise salmons and pinks. Sunset glowing oranges. Still waters to small waves. Course sand to rocky coast.

Shifting head spaces follow geography.

Arrival.

The Aftermath of Kay

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Hurricane Kay’s arms extended 600 miles

Water water everywhere. That’s Kay’s swan song, with arroyos washing out roads along the entire peninsula. She wasn’t even a strong hurricane – a category 2 in her heaviest moment – but she was grand – huge arms nearly 600 miles across. Her winds ran as high as 72mph in various locations, but her water. The rain. The desperately needed rain came all at once, the ground crusty dry. No way to absorb, but rush and run down the mountain faces and arroyos.

Day before Hurricane Kay heading toward Insurgentes
Same Road – two days after Hurricane Kay

Multiple towns took hard hits. The Mulege river once again breached its banks, flooding everyone and thing in proximity. San Felipe, usually a dry sandy desert, found itself with streets of rivers, more suited to kayaks or canoes.

The major effect of Kay was on MEX 1 the transpeninsular highway that transits between Tijuana and Cabo San Lucas. The road cut in so many places that traffic and commerce were actually halted for three days. Today, the 13th of September, most roads have some measure of passage, and the large double tractor trailers could be seen heading south. Below, some photographs, borrowed from various posts and publications, communicate what my words lack.

Between Vizcaino & Guerro Negro
San Felipe
Jesus Maria
Between Loreto & Santa Rosalia
Guerro Negro
Mex 1 North
Toward Mexicali
Jesus Maria

Close to home, or the home I cannot yet reach, the highway between Insurgentes and San Juanico washed out first in Insurgentes, and then the bridge was obliterated over the wash a few miles outside of town.

Arroyo crossing (or lack of) near San Juanico
Arroyo crossing (or lack of) near San Juanico

The townspeople came together, and with shovels and arms full of rock and mud, began the process of crafting a crossing. It’s this spirit of ‘can-do’ which continues to fuel my love for Baja.

Arroyo Work (photo: Jenny Smith)
Arroyo Work (photo: Jenny Smith)