Baja Simple

The rocky dirt road was getting bumpier, the ruts and rattles deeper and louder. To our left was a steep ochre hillside dotted with spiny cordon cactuses, to the right a straight plunge into the Gulf of California. Our speed was a racing 20 mph. I didn’t think my rented two-door, toy-like Chevy Pop could handle the strain, and I wasn’t sure I could either. I squinted into the sun to pick out a spot of green beyond the next crescent curve of beach. I hoped it was our destination, the Hotel Punta Pescadero.

It was my cursed imagination that landed us here. When I saw a newspaper column touting discounted Web fares to Mexico last fall, the idea of getting away, sitting by the sea and drinking Coronas with lime in the afternoon followed by a siesta seized me. I began visiting the Mexicana Airlines site (https://www.mexicana.com) every week, looking for a cheap flight from L.A. to Cabo San Lucas at the southern tip of Baja. It took me three months to find low fares on dates I was free to travel, but I finally landed two round-trip tickets for a recent Friday departure at $199 per person. (Taxes and airport fees added $75.46 each.)

My mind’s eye pictured romance and desolate beaches, so overdeveloped Cabo San Lucas wouldn’t do. My plan was to head northeast about 50 miles on Mexico 1 toward La Paz and get off where the transpeninsular highway briefly kisses the coast at Los Barriles, a low-key Mexican village long favored by sport fishermen.

The East Cape has a few scattered resorts that have catered to anglers for years, but now others are moving in: windsurfers, scuba divers, kayakers and snorkelers attracted by one of North America’s few living coral reefs. Many of the local hotels include three meals in the price of the rooms, a good plan if the kitchen staff is talented but disastrous if it’s not. So I chose a place that offered meals but charged for them separately, allowing us to escape if needed.

After 40 minutes of driving on this eight-mile stretch of road with rocks the size of softballs, my companion, Barry, and I found the 21-room Hotel Punta Pescadero. It has a near perfect location, perched on a bluff overlooking the gulf, with a small pool, tennis courts, restaurant, bar, gift shop and a game room with a billiards table, Foosball and large-screen TV. Landscaped with palm trees and cactuses, the hotel lay like a sluggish lizard, its five low-lying, sand-colored buildings well camouflaged in the surrounding desert.

At the bar, a dozen Americans were drinking beer, margaritas and soft drinks, chatting in the dulcet tones of relaxed people. It was one of those rare instances when reality matches fantasy.

Barry and I plunged into the scene, pulling up two seats at the bar, drinking our complimentary margaritas and watching the sun cast sparkles on the water. We could see mountains almost 50 miles down a coast that contained few signs of development.

It could have been the moment or even the setting, but Barry declared the margarita “the best I’ve ever had.” It certainly was potent. After downing just one, there was not much we could do except stroll on the nearly deserted beach, scour the coral-strewn sand for seashells and test the temperature of the warm water.

Lazily, we watched two men and a boy throw nets into the water and pull them out brimming with wiggling fish. A stiff, cool wind sprang up as the sun dipped to the horizon.

We returned to our room (a special of $115 per night plus tax), decorated in green and tropical tones; a refrigerator was well stocked with drinks. Barry lighted a fire in the stone fireplace. I reached for a book I had found in the hotel’s library, where well-thumbed paperbacks ranged from tempestuous romances to John Grisham novels.

For dinner ($15 per person), the hotel restaurant gave only one choice. “Camarones,” the semi-bilingual waiter told us. The fresh shrimp in a Creole-like sauce over rice was delicious. (Adding a homey touch, earlier he had served aromatic tortilla soup from a stainless steel saucepan.)

There were only eight other people in the low-lighted dining room, decorated with huge marlin over two large stone fireplaces. Barry and I wandered onto the deserted patio and looked up to see such a multitude of stars that even familiar constellations were unrecognizable. I could feel a sense of serenity wash over me with the rhythm of the waves.

Saturday, I awoke midmorning to a glorious view of a turquoise sea. After a quick breakfast of English muffins, fruit and coffee (about $5 per person), we got into our car for another nerve-numbing ride down the dirt road to the village of Los Barriles and beyond, the Cabo Pulmo National Marine Park, about 50 miles south, and its 27-square-mile protected coral reef. The hotel offered diving and snorkel tours to Cabo Pulmo and even rented equipment and kayaks, but we passed on all, feeling energetic enough for exploration but not exertion.

On the outskirts of Los Barriles, we passed a tract of large houses and beach bungalows. Signs urged buyers to grab a patch of paradise. Muscular laborers were sweating in the noonday sun, and I began yet another reverie, this time wondering what it would be like to own a house here.

We drove past villages consisting of a dozen homes. The paved road ended abruptly and turned to dirt and dust. Our pace slowed to 10 mph. Occasionally we’d see empty beaches, some with scattered mansions at their edges.

Just as we were getting peckish and thinking of turning back, we reached the tiny village of Cabo Pulmo. We passed a dive shop and a restaurant with nobody in sight. Las Palapas, a taco stand on the beach, had one couple sitting at a table. So we sat down to a tasty lunch of fish and shrimp tacos with refried beans, rice and Pacifico beers.

Another American couple arrived, and we struck up a conversation, which turned to home prices and the intricacies of Mexican laws governing homeownership for foreigners. The couple, from Oregon, had bought and sold a house near Cabo Pulmo, quadrupling their investment.

We returned to Punta Pescadero at cocktail hour. The margaritas, made by a different bartender, were a watery disappointment. We gave up on the idea of driving the tortuous dirt road to Los Barriles for a third time that day and instead settled for the hotel dining room.

The meal was buffet style, and our choices, a chicken tortilla casserole and meat tacos with rice and beans and salad, were also disappointing. But the experience was redeemed by dessert, flan that was light and delicious.

Our last day dawned warmer, sunny and less windy. (In winter, winds from the north can be very strong and steady, blowing relentlessly for days.) After breakfast, we spent the morning paddling around in the waves and lounging in the sun.

To kill the last hours before our evening departure, we wandered around Las Barriles. We stopped in front of the Baja Properties office. A sales agent, an American, asked if we were interested in buying a house here, then handed us a booklet listing properties for sale.

Thumbing through it, I got a dose of reality: houses at three-quarters of a million, beachfront lots for $350,000. I’d have to abandon the vacation home idea.

As we drove back onto Mexico 1, I had another thought. I’d better hurry if I was to make my next fantasy a reality: coming back here before they paved over paradise.

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Budget for Two

Round-trip air fare, LAX to Los Cabos: $548.30

Hotel Punta Pescadora, two nights, four meals 402.10

Lunch, Las Palapas: 14.30

Car rental, three days: 193.82

Gas: 20.50

FINAL TAB: $1,179.02

Hotel Punta Pescadero, U.S. Office, 31 Calle Alamitos, Rancho Santa Margarita, CA 92688; telephone (800) 426-2252 or (949) 766-6473, fax (949) 766-6677. In Mexico, ADPO Postal 362, La Paz, B.C.S. 23000; tel. 011-52-114-101-01, Internet https://www.punta-pescadero.com.