Twenty Miles per Cookie: 9000 Miles of Kid-Powered Adventures

by Nancy Sathre-Vogel

  On the other side of the fence, we could see men chopping down trees. I walked over to them. “Do you guys think we could possibly put our tent in here tonight?” I asked in Spanish.

  “You’ll have to talk with the owner,” they replied. “He should be here in thirty minutes.”

  We were in a quandary. As we looked ahead, we could see the road for a mile or so. There was certainly no place to camp in that stretch of road. If we waited in hopes of a perfect spot in the tree farm, it would be too late to find anything else should the owner not allow us to stay. On the other hand, if we left and looked for something else, we may or may not find something, and we would have abandoned all hopes of the perfect tree farm. In the end, we waited.

  Fortunately, the owner had no problem with us staying so we settled in for the night in a perfect little grassy spot amongst the trees.

  All too soon morning arrived and we discovered that our perfect campsite ended up being not quite so perfect after all. It was a nice spot in a small grove of trees on a narrow strip of grass between a eucalyptus tree farm and an open field which had recently been plowed and prepared for planting (which translated to a great big field of loose dirt).

  As I prepared dinner the night before in our ideal spot in our small grove of trees I had noticed the wind kicking up quite a dust cloud. I thought, I’m sure glad I’m here, sheltered by these wonderful trees, rather than out there in all that dust.

  A couple of hours later, once we were all snuggled in warm and cozy, the wind picked up in earnest. It whistled and howled through the trees all night long, and it picked up buckets of dust from the freshly-plowed field.

  It seemed like the wind funneled every single bucketful of dirt right down onto our little campsite. In the morning we awoke to find a thick layer of dirt covering everything like fine gray snow. Dirt had penetrated through the mesh windows of the tent, covering our sleeping bags with a gritty film. Our tent was blanketed with a fine gray tapestry. Our bikes, panniers, helmets, sunglasses, everything was covered with dust. What a mess! What a great big, colossal mess! The mess to end all messes. The mother of them all.

  Fortunately we had closed all our panniers but one. That one was filled with dirt. John and I spent an hour or so cleaning up the best we could and set off, feeling that the day could only get better. After all, things couldn’t possibly get any worse – or could they?

  The couple of miles of climbing we had seen the previous evening turned out to be the start of a full-blown pass up a steep incline on a narrow, windy road with no shoulder. Fortunately, the drivers were courteous, but a few blind corners caused a bit of concern. But by far the most concern was caused by wind.

  There isn’t much worse than a headwind. It’s like climbing a hill with no summit. It’s like fighting an unbeatable foe. No matter how many hours you battle or how valiantly you fight, you know you will never claim victory. We battled that foe all morning – climbing the pass, down the pass, around the corners. He never let us rest.

  By noon we had made it a grand total of twenty miles and stopped in San Vicente for lunch. Our intention was to eat and continue on, but the demoralizing effect of the headwind had beaten us down. We checked into a hotel and called it a day.

  We were pedaling south in Baja through an especially remote and mountainous region and, as my legs pumped, I pondered our relatively short supply of water. It was approximately seventy miles to the nearest town; seventy miles of difficult terrain and high heat. Seventy miles of needing an awful lot of water and, I feared, our meager water supplies were no match for the job.

  As we laboriously pumped up yet another mountain pass, two men flagged us over and plied us with bottles of Gatorade, which we very happily accepted. We stood there, dripping sweat and chugging Gatorade, while Balo and Ole introduced themselves.

  “We first saw you back in Ensenada,” Ole told us. “We could tell from your bikes that you were going a long way. So this morning, before we left town, we bought a case of Gatorade for you.”

  Our mouths gaped open in astonishment.

  “I know the Gatorade is too heavy to carry, so this is what we’re going to do: every fifteen or twenty kilometers we’ll build a rock cairn like this.” Ole built up a pile of rocks on the side of the road. “Then we’ll go a few meters back from the road and hide four bottles of Gatorade under a bush or behind a rock.”

  Balo and Ole hid stashes of Gatorade along the side of the road. We spent the next three days finding them. What a treat!

  By that point our jaws were hanging down around our belly buttons.

  “Okay?” he asked. “Every fifteen or twenty kilometers you’ll find a rock cairn. Near there will be four Gatorades.”

  We nodded our heads, unable to speak.

  Balo walked over to a cooler and brought out a Ziploc baggie with a big foil-wrapped something and a bunch of napkins inside. “The Gatorade we can hide on the road for you. But these tamales we can’t. You’ll have to eat these soon. ”

  I picked my jaw up off the ground and gratefully accepted the bag of tamales.

  A mile or so later we found a small patch of shade, sat down to eat our tamales, and I knew I had arrived. Nirvana... utopia... heaven... whatever you want to call it... I was there. That had to rate right up there as the all-time best lunch consumed on the side of the road!

  Licking our lips and fingers to get every last tasty morsel, we climbed back on our bikes to begin the treasure hunt. We kept our eyes peeled for a rock cairn, and our boys were giddy with excitement as they scanned the roadside for signs of cairns. When we finally found a pile, the boys jumped off the bike and began searching.

  “Mommy!” they squealed in delight when the spied four brightly colored bottles hidden under a bush like baby birds waiting for their mother. “We found it!”

  Their delight never dimmed, and each time we discovered another stash the four of us gratefully climbed off our bikes and enjoyed the refreshing liquid in the shade of an enormous cardon cactus.

  * * *

  Dear Grandma,

  We had a very hilly day today. We were either going up or down, but never flat, all day. It really wore me out. There were some people that stopped and gave us a whole bunch of Gatorade and granola bars. But there was only one problem. We could not carry all of the Gatorade. They said they would make rock piles by the road. We would go straight back and find some hidden Gatorade. We found one pack so far. They also gave us some tamales. They were good. We camped in a ranch. On the ranch if you wander back enough you get killed by guard dogs.

  Love, Daryl

  * * *

  “That way,” he said as he languorously pointed south. All I could see was the grin, blazing through the sun’s noontime rays. I knew the Cheshire Cat was lurking there, perched upon a graceful arm of a giant cardon cactus. I pondered the strangeness of a grin without a cat and looked about in wonder. Was I seeing things? Or had I honestly pedaled my way into the most intriguing landscape on Earth?

  We had stumbled into Valle de los Cirios, and I felt exactly how I imagine Alice felt as she took those first tentative steps into Wonderland. I marveled at impossibly absurd boojum trees extending fifty feet into the air and at the sheer variety and density of cacti scattered about. The ground was covered so thoroughly and completely with various species of cacti that we struggled mightily to find a vacant spot large enough to accommodate our bicycles and tent in the evening.

  Camping amongst the cacti in Baja was relaxing and a very unique experience.

  But the real magic of the valley appeared the following day. We cycled around a corner and I fell headlong down a hole and ended up in Wonderland! I felt like Alice as I gazed in wonder at huge boulders strewn around as though they had been tossed by a giant toddler. Nestled in the nooks and crannies between boulders we found cacti of every species imaginable. Enormous cardons, resembling their sister saguaros, towered majestically over the valley floor as though protecting its inhabitants with their enormous arms.


  Alongside the cardons stood the almost silly-looking boojum trees, like gigantic upside-down fuzzy carrots with pathetic crowns perched haphazardly atop them. Hiding in the crevices of the rocks we found a multitude of other types of cactus. Along with the impossibly tall cardons and boojums, equally tiny cacti-like foxtail littered the ground, as well as cacti of every size and shape in between. Long skinny organ pipe cactus grew alongside short squatty barrel cactus.

  Teddy bear cholla, with its detachable balls that tended to jump out and grab you, fought for space amongst the multitude of other plant life. Elephant trees, like miniature baobab trees transplanted from the African savanna, shaded rainbow cacti and a myriad of different species of yucca and century plants. It has been said over 125 different species of cactus can be found in the Baja, and I had little doubt that each and every one of them resided in Valle de los Cirios.

  I was Alice exploring Wonderland as I pedaled my bike through the bizarre, magical landscape. Each new twist and turn of the road brought new wonders to behold and new sights to gaze upon. Granite boulders, as big as a house, served nicely as the Mad Hatter’s table. I felt impossibly small and insignificant standing next to gigantic cardons, then the next moment I was impossibly huge towering over lesser cacti.

  Old man cactus, with its dense shaggy spines like an old man’s grizzly gray beard, reminded me of the King of Hearts. The queen’s army was ready to attack, perched upon their steeds of galloping cactus with strong sharp spines as weapons. But the queen was conspicuous only in her absence.

  I laughed out loud at the ridiculous boojum trees, and delighted in scrambling over and around massive boulders with my children in search of Wonderland’s hidden spectacles. At one point a rabbit scurried away, and I could have sworn I heard him mumble, “I’m late! I’m late! For a very important date!”

  Many miles later, as we pedaled away from Valle de los Cirios and the boojum trees and cardons grew progressively smaller (…or was I growing larger?), there was a part of me that wanted to turn around… to pedal back into the magical desert landscape in search of the elusive Queen of Hearts. But the rest of Baja beckoned. I heeded the call and realized Wonderland couldn’t continue on forever. I reluctantly pedaled away.

  “Ah, Mom… Do I hafta?” Davy grumbled. “I wanna play here some more.”

  I looked around, bewildered, at “here.” “Here” was simply a plain ol’ wide spot in the road. We had stopped there solely for the purpose of fixing a flat tire. For the boys, however, “here” had become a soccer field, and the many discarded plastic Coke bottles found littering the ground had turned into soccer balls. “Yes, honey,” I sighed. “This flat tire set us back, and we need to get into town today. Please go get on the bike.” The boys took off to score one last goal before reluctantly climbing on the bike behind their father.

  As we pedaled toward town I thought back upon the six months we had been on the road – on the hundreds of hours we had spent pedaling and the multitude of breaks we had taken on the sides of roads since we left home. And I thought about all my boys had learned in those months, learning that extended way beyond the traditional 3 R’s of education.

  At the beginning of the journey the kids dragged out miniature plastic aliens at each break. Their aliens fought battles and conquered new lands. By the next day rocks and sticks had become spaceships and distant planets which their aliens controlled. Within a few days, the aliens had been forgotten and their playthings were solely of the natural variety: rocks, sticks, leaves, and pinecones.

  Our journey was magical in so many ways. For Davy and Daryl the magic lay in the dirt road that magically transformed into a soccer field, or the stones which became baseballs, or the old bottle perched on a fence post that converted into a target. The magic for them lay in the time to play and create, to dream and imagine, to explore and discover.

  They became explorers discovering new and exciting territory in the dark caverns of tunnels beneath the road. They became major league baseball players pitching a no-hitter with rocks found on the side of the road. They became Power Rangers battling the evil forces with ninja sticks gathered from a fallen tree or engineers building complex dams of sand and stones.

  Davy and Daryl perfected the fine art of taking full advantage of every second of break time. They became experts at immediately sizing up their environment and creating a game with whatever happened to be at hand. They may have spent their break throwing rocks at a cliff wall, trying to knock down a particular rock, or maybe they tried to capsize a raft (more than likely an old discarded plastic bottle) floating down a stream. Perhaps they found pinecones with which to fight World War 3 or old bottles that became bowling pins. My sons made forts with rocks and sand, they created playhouses in groves of trees, and they discovered ships hidden in the side of the road.

  We pedaled into town, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that our journey was the best gift we ever could have given our children.

  One day as we cycled along the long lonely Baja highway, it suddenly wasn’t quite so lonely. Although we had noticed there was a definite lack of cars on the road, we were surprised to see a solid row of cars lining the edge of the road.

  We pedaled beside the cars watching passengers and drivers relax in the sun. Some lay in the seat with their feet hanging out the window; others played frisbee in a nearby field. A small group of drivers hung around chatting while seated on the hood of an ancient beat-up old car. Directly behind it sat an enormous RV.

  Seeing the cars lined up waiting for gas to arrive made us very thankful for our mode of transportation.

  “What’s going on?” I asked John as we cycled side-by-side along the deserted road.

  “I have no idea,” he responded. “This is really bizarre.”

  A couple miles farther ahead we discovered the reason for all those cars parked by the side of the road: a gas shortage.

  “We’ve been here in line for two days,” one RV driver told us. “There is no gas anywhere in Baja right now, and we can’t go on until we get some. They keep telling us the gas is coming, but I have no idea when it’ll actually make it.”

  “I just need to get back to my village one hundred miles from here,” added another driver. “The problem is that we just came in to town to buy food and left our cat locked in our house. The poor thing doesn’t have any food or water and there is no way we can get back there. Fortunately, I just got hold of our neighbor and asked her to break in through a window to feed the cat.”

  As we milled around chatting with stranded travelers I couldn’t help but think of their dependence on gasoline. They were getting around twenty miles per gallon, which translates to a lot of gas. And us? Our boys’ fuel of choice was Oreo cookies – I figured we were getting maybe twenty miles per cookie, but at least we weren’t stuck at a gas station waiting for the shipment to arrive.

  “Deck the halls with boughs of holly…” We sang cheerfully with aging snowbirds as we sat around tables set up in an RV park. We had managed to find a Christmas potluck dinner to attend, so we showed up bearing a fancy pink plastic bowl filled with guacamole and a package of crackers. Everyone else brought wonderful homemade dishes, which they cooked in their ovens. We thoroughly enjoyed porking out on turkey and ham, potatoes, veggies, and pumpkin pies.

  As we sat there stuffing our faces, John told stories to the party-goers. It was almost as though he was a young, famous explorer visiting a city after discovering wild and untamed lands. He was a rough and ragged adventurer, strong from months of traveling uncharted wilderness, regaling others with stories of his adventures. His audience of retired snowbirds who had escaped the frigid winters of the north listened attentively.

  “A piñata!” Davy cried when he saw the bright, multi-colored ball hanging beside one of the RVs. “When do we get to break it?”

  Our new-found friend, Joy, had purchased a piñata for the boys. They had a blast swinging a bat while blindfolded until they finally broke it open and made a mad da
sh for the candy strewn about the ground.

  The boys were sure Santa wouldn’t be able to find them out in the boonies of Baja, but Christmas had been a special holiday anyway. We made our way back to our little tent hidden in a grove of trees and fell asleep with visions of sugar plums dancing in our heads.

  “Santa found us!” Davy shouted the following morning when he found presents piled at the foot of his sleeping bag. “Daryl! Santa came! He is real!”

  “Mom, how much farther is it to La Paz?” Daryl asked as we took a break on the side of the road.

  “It’s pretty darn close now, sweetie,” I replied. “We’re so close we could walk from here if we needed to.”

  Daryl ran to his brother who was off in a field playing with old broken sticks. “Davy! Davy!” he shouted. “We’re close enough to walk! We’re almost to La Paz!”

  The boys were in celebration mode. They jumped and shouted, they danced and whirled. They had made it. They had pedaled six thousand miles and had been seeing mileage signs for La Paz for well over seven hundred miles. And now, finally, La Paz was within reach. No longer was it some remote destination – it was here and now. After months of riding, we had reached our southern terminus.

  After 6,000 miles we reached our southern terminus of La Paz. From here we took a ferry to mainland Mexico.

  Pictures

  Approaching the top of yet another pass – big accomplishments!

  We traveled the Oregon Trail and enjoyed relics from days gone by.

  Temperatures cooled off significantly once we reached the Columbia River Gorge.

  Lewis and Clark traveled along the Columbia River. The boys enjoyed playing on monuments along our path.