How to spend 24 hours in Baja (if you’re bikepacking)

Crossing the border is always exciting and never fun. It’s basically about 20 minutes of trying not to make eye contact with a dude in uniform in case he thinks you’re sketchy, and about 10 seconds of frantic searching because somehow you still don’t have your passport ready, even after 20 minutes of looking at your bag intensely. That’s about how things went last summer. We didn’t get searched, and even received the customary warnings often bestowed to those choosing human-powered fun—“it’s very hot,” “that is a long way on a bicycle,” “there’s a bus you can take,” etc.

Suitably humbled by the border guy, we pointed our noses towards the next borderland institution: the panadería. 

You might think you know what’s up with bakeries, but unless you’ve experienced the joy of grabbing a pair of tongs and going hog wild among the self-serve pan dulce, you have much to learn.

Of course, this elation is rapidly followed by a profound sense of discomfort that will tend to happen when you combine starch, sugar, soaring temperatures and five people in the cab of a Ford F150 speeding down the Pacific coast of Mexico.

Once suitably carb-loaded, next comes a customary coffee stop just before Ensenada. There’s a good coffee shop on the way into town on the right (allegedly it is called the “Wild Bean” but there is another café nearby with that name, so one just needs to keep a sharp lookout for the modest shop that sits on the side of the road right before you get into town). 

I always stop there because it’s nice to get a final espresso before you head into the hills where you’re going to be enjoying the bold flavor of Nescafé for a few days. The café is also a good place to execute a sneaky costume change in the toilet before heading to the start of the ride. I feel like any well-planned trip should take into account the very normal desire to not ever be naked in a car park next to a very windy ocean surrounded by strangers, and I have begun many an adventure in the toilets of the Ensenada café.

I always love the first night of those trips, with days of adventure, suffering, and roadside ice cream and beer stops ahead.

La Bufadora, the blowhole, is about half an hour south of Ensenada. It’s a great place to start a ride. It’s on a peninsula on the southern end of the bay that Ensenada sits in the middle of. Every few minutes, the ocean surges up through a chute in the cliffs and soaks anyone who hasn’t realized what the whole “blowhole” thing is about and was expecting to be able to stand right next to it and stay dry. For purely sentimental reasons, I always like to touch the ocean on the west coast of Baja before I head inland. So, I join the tourists and infants and stand there in my Spandex and get soaked. 

Note: If you’re planning on recreating this trip, I would skip this step. The next part involves lots of cycling, and the resulting chafe is undesirable.

The other thing you can see at La Bufadora is a baffling array of plush toys. Setting off across the country with my friend Anna, I was petitioned by everyone selling toys (or, better yet, chances to win toys by throwing rings at things) to buy one for her. Sadly, one of the few absolute truths in bikepacking is that it really sucks with a four-foot Angry Bird strapped anywhere on your vehicle or person. Instead, it’s advisable to talk to those who have already acquired said stuffy toys and, casting self-consciousness aside, attempt to lend a voice to that stuffy, in Spanish.

It’s a pretty stiff climb out of La Bufadora, and any folly with the pan dulce becomes immediately apparent. But, rumbles aside, it’s always good to be finally on the road. Or, to be more accurate, it’s good to be off the road because some of the roads in that area are not exactly welcoming to bike traffic.

One of the glorious things about Baja is that it’s full of dirt roads. You can ride these for miles, dipping in and out of the hills and more or less constantly being pursued by dogs. That’s par for the course, especially on the dirt road that leads to Coyote Cal’s.

But somehow, in between two totally unnecessary stops and the Pokémon ventriloquy, we found ourselves running late during our excursion. This meant tackling the last few miles into Cal’s, which sits in the beautiful coastal town of Eréndira, in the dark.

 Seeing the sun set over the ocean is always fun, but seeing the corner on the descent a bit too late and braking primarily with your face is less so. I’d advise allotting plenty of time for this part of the ride, especially if cattle are sleeping on the road because they are not moving for you, your bike, anything, or anyone. Perhaps they would have had I proved my virility earlier by winning a stuffed “angry bird” the size of a Shetland pony.

Dark or light, Cal’s is always a welcoming spot. The little surf shack on the hill above the deserted beach is what I imagine parts of California were like before they turned into tourist traps. At Cal’s, you can buy beer in the bucket and they’ll fix you a delicious burrito while they give you the beta on which dirt roads are washed out and which areas are best avoided by two very pale gringos on bikes. There’s a whole room full of bunks, but if you’re there in the off-season, you’ll get your own side room, and maybe even an outlet. There’s wifi too, which is nice because I always feel the need for everyone to see the mud and blood covering my legs on Instagram.   

Lying in a bunk bed listening to the waves is a pretty great way to end any day, but it’s particularly special when—just that morning—you were waking up at home. I always love the first night of those trips, with days of adventure, suffering, and roadside ice cream and beer stops ahead. From Cal’s you can go south, or inland to Mike’s Sky Ranch, a motorcycle mecca where people will ask you about your push bike with a mix of respect and confusion. 

From there, all of Baja is open if you don’t mind turning the pedals a bit. In another day or two, you could be seeing whales, relaxing in the ocean having crossed the whole peninsula, or fighting your way through hub-deep sand in 100-degree sunshine. Naturally, I chose option three, perhaps overkeen to burn off the pan dulce.