A JOURNEY INTO THE HEART OF BAJA
Words by Ben Giese | Photography by Tyler Ravelle
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The morning fog burns off the mountains as a golden glow from the rising sun casts an ethereal light over the rugged landscape. It’s 6:30 a.m. at the California-Mexico border in Tecate, and the promise of adventure crackles in the air like static electricity. I meet up with the boys in a secure parking lot where we can safely stow our trucks. High fives and hugs are exchanged, a ritualistic bonding of the tribe, as we unload our bikes and pack our gear for the next ten days of riding down the wild, untamed Baja peninsula.
Our motley crew consists of kindred spirits from across North America, united by a shared madness for dust and danger. At the helm of this expedition is Canadian photographer Tyler Ravelle, the mastermind who rallied the troops and spent countless hours poring over maps and plotting our course. Joining Tyler on the descent from Canada are friends James Carew and Joel Fuller. I made the solo journey from Colorado, and we all converged at this meeting point with a few local SoCal legends—Monti Smith, Justin Chatwin and Jon Beck.
After months of planning and preparation, we are finally off and rolling. Day one starts off easy and breezy with a smooth passage through the border. Mellow dirt roads guide us into a dense pine forest that feels more like riding in Northern Arizona, but we know the real glory of Baja will come to us in time.
The evening shadows creep in as we drop into Valle de la Trinidad and find ourselves in the dusty, sun-baked town of Lázaro Cárdenas. There, we stumble upon a little taco stand buzzing with energy from various race teams pre-running for the upcoming Baja 500. It appears to be a must-stop destination for hungry travelers like us, and a meeting point for drivers and teams, the air thick with the smell of carne asada and high-octane racing fuel, engines roaring in the distance.
We sit there admiring the trophy trucks parked out front, laughing with excitement for the miles already covered and the unknown adventures ahead. Our bikes are in good condition, our bodies healthy, and our spirits high. But as the day comes to an end, we soon realize this feeling of bliss is a fleeting illusion.
After a jolt of coffee and a quick breakfast, we hit the trail early, diving headfirst into the jaws of some of the most diabolical and technical riding of the trip—an endless, hellish climb over monstrous rocks, boulders and treacherous loose gravel that almost breaks the group’s spirit. Tyler, James and I make it to the top and wait for our friends as they claw their way up the brutal ascent. When Joel finally emerges at the summit, the look of utter defeat is etched on his face. His bike is battered and broken, and he becomes a walking testament to Baja’s cruelty—covered in dust and dirt from countless crashes, gasping for air after his struggle up the mountain.
The euphoric high of the previous day is now a distant memory. Baja is merciless. Not for the faint of heart. A place where dreams go to die and only the strong survive.
As evening falls, the group limps into a remote cliffside lodge overlooking the Pacific Ocean to assess the carnage. Joel’s bike is a mangled wreck, and his drain plug fell out at one point, causing him to lose a significant amount of oil. James’ bike is leaking oil, too. Justin’s rear tire is shredded beyond recognition, and his bike seems to be plagued by mysterious electrical problems. The straps on Monti’s tank bag has ripped off entirely, and Tyler’s bike is now overheating, causing the clutch to periodically go out. Only two days in, and the devil is already on our tail.
The California boys decide it’s best to flee north to the border while they still can. And Joel, shattered by Baja’s relentless assault, saw the writing on the wall. Knowing the road ahead promises only greater horrors, he makes the wise decision to join the Californians on their ride north and catch a flight home to Canada, ending his journey early.
And just like that, our once-mighty group of seven has now been whittled down to three: Tyler, James and myself. We’ll miss our fallen comrades, but now we can move fast and light, like coyotes on the hunt. So, we bid farewell and set our sights south.
In the blink of an eye, the dreary landscape morphs into a psychedelic panorama of towering rock formations and colossal saguaro cacti. The rugged, remote road stretches endlessly into the horizon, winding deeper into the unknown, farther and farther away from the comforts of civilization.
Not a soul in sight.
This is where the creeping sense of vulnerability sets in. Alone. A thousand miles from nowhere. The weight of isolation pressing in from all sides, tightening its grip. This is where the real adventure begins.
They call this region Never Never Land. And for damn good reason.
You’re never going to have cell service. You’re never going to find support. You’re never going to receive help. You’ll never see another soul.
Nothing.
Just the relentless, unforgiving rocky terrain that wants nothing more than to chew up your machine and spit out your broken body. But the good stuff never comes easy, and if you can survive this savage terrain, you’ll be rewarded with some of the most exhilarating, awe-inspiring riding on the planet, through some of the most whimsical landscapes you can imagine.
Smack dab in the middle of this vast, unforgiving Never Never Land is a tiny speck of civilization known as Cataviña. This little village will become our lifeline for the next two nights—a sanctuary where we could find shelter, food, gas, WiFi and a fleeting sense of security.
Like a shimmering mirage in a desert of death, Cataviña offers a much-needed respite. Here, we can take a breather from the assault of Baja and spend an off day by the pool, patching up the scars of our journey, wrenching on our broken bikes and coaxing them back to life so we can continue riding south.
The road leaving Cataviña beckons us into the most enchanting section of the trip. A surreal landscape seemingly pulled from another dimension. The morning light bathes the desert in a golden hue, transforming everything it touches. Majestic rock canyons unfurl before us, and colossal saguaro cacti, standing like ancient protectors of the land, looming over us like silent gods. Their spindly arms reaching out as if to welcome us into their magical realm.
We continue riding these dusty tracks like madmen possessed, from sunup to sundown, dancing our way back and forth across the peninsula, to the desolate West Coast beaches and then back again, across the desert to the East Coast. As the sun dips towards the horizon, we arrive at the picturesque fishing village of Bahía de los Ángeles, nestled along the crystal-blue waters of the Sea of Cortez.
We cap off an unforgettable day indulging in some mouthwatering fish tacos and freshly caught ceviche, washing it all down with ice-cold Tecates. Across the bay, we watch the mountains fade to a dark purple as we share stories of our travels with some friendly fishermen. Exhaustion sets in, and we go to bed early.
As we lounge with some coffee, enjoying a peaceful start to the day, the rumble of two more motorcycles roll up, their eyes immediately drawn to our bikes. One of them, after a moment’s scrutiny, glances over and calls out, “Tyler Ravelle, is that you?”
No way! Fellow Canadians! Stephan Malette and Gabriel Distillo, two wanderers who had been on the road for over a month. After starting their epic journey in Nelson, British Columbia, they were making their way south, chasing the sun toward Central America. I can’t believe they happened to cross our little path in this great big world. It’s mind-blowing how the universe works sometimes, and it’s moments like these that remind you how this shared passion for two wheels can bring people together in the most unexpected places.
We show our new friends a pin on the map, pointing out our destination for the evening—a secluded beach where we’d set up camp. We invite them to join us, and they eagerly agree. With a sense of excitement, Tyler, James and I gear up and set off, ready to cover some ground.
Sure enough, as we roll up to camp that evening, there they are—our friends from that morning, waiting for us, shirts off and sunburnt, grinning like a couple of crazed castaways stranded on a desert island. Our little group of three has now grown to five, and I am officially outnumbered by Canadians. We set up camp in the soft sand on the most beautiful beach you could imagine.
Sitting there in the salty breeze soaking up the evening, we cook some food as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The last light fades away, and I look up at the stars feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude. It’s moments like this that you never forget. But the good things can’t last forever, and we’d be paying our tax the next day.
We pack up camp early and continue south, and with each passing mile the striking beauty of the days before began to fade into the rearview. Those vibrant pastel landscapes become much more dull and lifeless. The plants now seem sharper, uglier, meaner. The sun seems hotter, and the atmosphere grows increasingly more ominous and sinister.
The devil lives here, you can feel it in your bones.
My sense of optimism is now fading under this creeping feeling of dread. Out here, if something happens, nobody is coming to help. Vultures track our every move with their beady eyes, waiting for something to go wrong so they can enjoy their next meal.
My mind begins to spiral. I start to replay the endless texts from friends and loved ones warning us about the dangers of Mexico. “Don’t go,” they said, recounting horror stories of criminals and cartels, of Americans vanishing without a trace, of murderers and psychopaths who kill foreigners and sell their organs on the black market. Recent headlines about the two American surfers who were brutally executed are running through my mind.
As these terrifying thoughts take hold, we see two trucks parked ahead of us in the distance, flanking each side of the road. What are they doing out here? Is there something sketchy going down that we shouldn’t be here to witness? There’s no turning back at this point. They’ve already seen us, and there’s nowhere for us to go anyway. We are in the absolute middle of nowhere. So we decide to keep our momentum and ride past them as fast as we can, putting as much distance as possible between us and whatever is unfolding.
As we approach, the two men jump into their trucks, so we crank up the throttle even more to get away. Suddenly, James’ bag comes loose, and he has to stop to strap it back down. Tyler and I come to a halt just ahead of him. The sound of the trucks approaching is growing louder just beyond our cloud of dust.
“James, hurry up! Let’s get the fuck out of here!” we yell. No response.
The sound of the trucks bumping down the rocky road is getting closer. Finally, we hear James fire up his motorcycle and we take off in a fury, hearts pounding, adrenaline pumping, riding as fast as we can to escape the shadowy figures that haunt our path.
What follows is the most hellish riding of the trip—a death march through six-foot-deep sand rollers, bottomless silt, and endless teeth-chattering rocks that rattle us to the bone. The heat is unrelenting as we grind our way through the inferno under the afternoon sun. Each mile is more punishing than the last.
Our fuel gauges are edging toward empty, our water reserves are dwindling, and our spirits are at an all time low as I hear Tyler yell out under his helmet “FUCK THIS!”
But just as all hope seems lost, we come rolling into the beautiful little oasis town of San Ignacio. It feels like a miracle as the scorched desert abruptly gives way to a tropical green paradise with luscious palm trees and vibrant flowers.
The temperatures are much cooler here, and the surroundings much more peaceful. It’s just the place we need, and just the time we need it. A sanctuary for us to count our blessings and wash away the miles of torment. I take a nice, long shower and sip on a delicious vanilla milkshake that brings me right back to life.
We end the day laughing and sharing stories about the chaos of that day’s ride, refueling our bodies with some chicken enchiladas and celebrating with ice-cold margaritas. We reflect on all the ground we covered and all the experiences we had along the way. The mountains and deserts. The beautiful coastlines and epic camping spots. The incredible food and friendly faces.
Tyler put together an incredible route for us, and it’s been such a well-rounded trip. Our bikes are still functioning, and our bodies are still not broken. Sometimes, it’s best to know when to call it, to end the trip on a high note while everything is still going good. So, we decide it’s time to say farewell to Stephan and Gabriel and head back north in the morning.
It would take us two long and grueling days burning miles on the pavement to get back up to our trucks. And as the hours click by and I watch the ever-changing landscape pass, it’s hard to believe how far we’ve ridden, almost entirely off-road. And we not only survived, but we thrived.
I’m so thankful for the places a motorcycle can take you, the experiences it can open up, and the friends with whom you can share it. We just spent ten days getting lost in Baja, but all the amazing things we encountered along the way will stick with us for a lifetime.