Baja

There’s a million and one ways to describe my trip to Baja, a lesson learned from and a moment to reflect on in each.

During July of 2019 I flew to San Diego and got in a van (technically 2 vans) along with 19 other students and a few course leaders for the Baja Earth Expedition as part of Project Dragonfly through Miami University. 

We drove south: to Mexico through Baja, to the desert, to the sea.

Baja was a unique journey for each person.  A platform for growth.  A window for reflection.  The first ripple or the cataclysmic burst of transformation.

A pervasive theme of Baja centered around stepping outside of your comfort zone.

For me this started well before the actual trip, with fears and doubts and foreboding.  As someone who is prone to heat exhaustion and has had heat stroke several times, the prospect of living outside in the desert in the peak of summer filled me with dread.  That was not including my penchant for sunburning, which was comparatively less of a concern due my considerable expertise in sunscreen. 

I first attempted to mask my fears in retail therapy.  My determined shopping trips sought out the lightest and coolest and highest USF clothing I could find, and included impulse buying of a variety of hydration tablets and gummies. My justification rested on the knowledge that a side effect of this was that I would be extremely prepared for anything.

We stopped near a hill in a regional park of sorts.  We hiked up a short but steep path through cacti and brush.  We ate a camper’s breakfast beside boulders in the diminishing shade.  We had our first experience with just being in the moment – left to our own devices to do nothing more than think about ourselves in the moment we were in.

It grew hotter, the sun more intense and harder to shelter from.  It was no different than any other day, apart from the scenery.  My concerns lessened.  I was fine.

We moved back into the vans. We drove.  We continued driving.  We drove so long we wondered if there was anything to the trip besides driving. 

And then the roads changed.  We embraced communal car sickness on the roughest roads I have ever experienced in my life.  We bonded some more.

It remains the single most nausea-inducing, hot, uncomfortable portion of any car ride I have ever been on.  But we survived.  We arrived.

We toured the property (Vermillion Sea Institute, 2019a) and were shown the cots I had dreaded.  They were luxurious compared to the bathrooms – the barren stalls with toilets that functioned only in appearance, the damp and dingy concrete rooms that were sarcastically called showers. 

The real magic lay in the cistern and surrounding ring of buckets.  I felt my pre-trip dread redouble.

The palapa – our main shelter and classroom – was rustic and charming.  It was simple, primitive, and filled with a homey warmth that had nothing to do with the heat.  It had windows with no glass, doorways with no doors.  There were no fans.

The day was hot, but not so much more than a typical summer day.  Class resumed and I maintained at a level of nearly-comfortable.

As evening came, the temperatures cooled.  I felt myself relax tension I hadn’t realized I’d held.  The sky was vibrant with the radiance of desert sunsets. 

I brushed my teeth in water from my mug, taken from the clean water cistern.  I washed my face with the mug water as well.  I embraced the cot I had recently been introduced to, the dreaded device that held the power to cause so much discomfort.  I arranged the cot near others in a grove of oddly sophisticated rough camping.  Not so close that I would run into anyone, in a clear path from any cacti and potential nighttime walking hazards. 

As the sun disappeared, we were greeted with the early twinkling of stars above the mountain tops, crisply defined in the cloudless sky in our valley.  As we watched, the stars multiplied, until we stood under an immense net of lights infinitely dense. 

We were mesmerized.  After learning to identify more constellations than I ever thought I would see in the sky, we retired to our cots.

I lay, surprisingly comfortable, under the velvety canopy blinking above me.  The calm sounds of night blanketed the valley.  It was profoundly peaceful.

The next morning, I put my cot away with reverence, already looking forward to that night’s calm under the stars.  I found humor in the newfound importance of a mug of water during my morning routine.

The days progressed, the temperature climbed.  I realized, with no small amount of chagrin, how similar the environment and hiking activities were to my daily life.  I was embarrassed and baffled to reconcile my fears with the reality.

The lines of my comfort zone blurred and faded. 

I challenged myself.  I found myself outside during the peak of the day, not blinking at the 120 degrees, hiking for an hour searching for cows.  I rode a cowboy’s mule.  I hunted scorpions with black lights just to see how many I could find.

I hauled 3 gallons of water from the cistern into a dark concrete room.  With a headlamp hooked on a nail on the wall, I embraced my first shower with a mug.  The water was cool compared to the air, but most likely lukewarm by other standards. 

It was glorious.

When I finished, I realized another lesson of Baja.  I had more than a gallon of water left.  A full shower, including washing my hair, I accomplished in about 2 gallons of water.  I struggled to compare that with the volume used by shower at home.

For many years I swore to myself that I would never get up early just to watch a sunrise.  Too often I felt I had tried this and been woefully disappointed.  Baja, of course, challenged this.  A hike was offered at 4:30am.  I had been told it was a fantastic hiking.  Choosing to embrace the opportunity despite my prejudices and reservations, I joined the hike.  It was one of the most fantastic hikes I have experienced.  

So much for comfort zones.

Eventually the time at the desert came to a close.  I regretted leaving, missing the peace and serenity, particularly the evenings under the stars, even before we closed the doors to the van.

We arrived at the sea (Vermillion Sea Institute, 2019b).  

It felt like coming home – the smell of the air, the sound of the waves, the fog alighting the peaks of the islands scattered throughout the bay.

As suddenly as the terrain had changed, so too did the feeling of our course.  There was a pleasant saltiness to everything, clothing shifted to beach casual if not just beach attire.  Breaks consisted of a quick dip in the water, even if just ankle deep.  Excited discussions abounded of the discovery of sea creatures.

We climbed aboard boats and witnessed fin whales, and dolphins, and sea lions.  A part of me soared to experience the Sea of Cortez – a place I’d heard so much about, that I’d wanted to visit so much with its rich marine biodiversity (Ecott, 2015), and infamy relating to Vaquita (World Wildlife Fund, 2019).   Another part of me rejoiced in the electric rush of being around the marine world, and seeing animals I had always wanted to see. 

The ocean was where I was happiest.  I was surrounded my marine life and discussions thereof, my passion and joy overflowing.    

A strange, foreign part of me was slightly disappointed, mixing to affect an unfamiliar air of bittersweetness to my mood.  I saw my comfort zone wrap around me like a well-loved blanket. 

I bristled, feeling an almost suffocating stagnation to my newfound freedom.

I had truly begun to enjoy my time outside of my comfort zone: pushing myself further, feeling more confidence grow with each challenge.  And then here I was, back inside where I was comfortable.

It was an odd realization to find myself repulsed by the familiarity of my comfort zone. 

And as Baja was wont to make you do, I had a realization.  Between traveling the world, embarking on crazy adventures, and moving all over the country, I have always thrived on pushing myself outside of my comfort zone.  Apparently that was something I needed to remember.

Regardless, the joys of the ocean and all it held, the people I had begun to truly care for, and the magic of our unique bond didn’t let me dwell in heavy spaces for long.

We marveled and delighted in the luxury of running water while we washed dishes.  I amazed myself at my ability to relatively comfortably take a shower using less than 45 seconds of water per day.  

Too quickly our time drew to a close, and we returned to the vans.  The atmosphere was one of comfort and connection, of appreciation and exhaustion.  We were hardly the same 20-some strangers we’d been only days earlier. 

The miles flew by in a fraction of the time it had taken us to reach Baja.  We saw the landscape shift, the mountains fade.  Our phones touched service.  The US border greeted us as a sterile monument of finality. And the real world rushed back to meet us. 

We went home to our corners of the country, where responsibilities, and loved ones, and routine awaited.  We re-acclimated, and figured out how to re-attach ourselves to our lives outside of Baja. 

In the quiet of my apartment, with plentiful electricity, and air conditioning, and running water, and plumbing, and internet and cell reception, I unpacked several tubes of hydration tablets, and unopened packs of hydration gummies.

A wistful smile cracked the corner of my lips.

Fear, doubt, and comfort zones are interesting concepts.


A video of our journey can be found here:
https://youtu.be/fJYlH3ysdoM

  
Ecott, T.  (2015, July 18).  Sea of Cortez: the world's aquarium.  The Telegraph.  Retrieved from: https://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/destinations/central-america/mexico/articles/Sea-of-Cortez-the-worlds-aquarium/

Vermillion Sea Institute.  (2019a).  Rancho San Gregorio.  Retrieved from: https://vermilionseainstitute.org/rancho-san-gregorio/

Vermillion Sea Institute.  (2019b).  Vermillion Sea Field Station.  Retrieved from: https://vermilionseainstitute.org/vermilion-sea-field-station/

World Wildlife Fund.  (2019).  Vaquita.  Retrieved from: https://www.worldwildlife.org/species/vaquita