It was Christmas break of my sophomore year in high school when my friend and classmate Jake and I took off from Denton. We loaded all our gear and then drove his parents’ VW camper/van (with their permission), bound for Mexico with a stop in Douglas, Arizona. The plan was to meet up in Douglas with an older, more mature person named Jim, whom I knew from the summer camp where I’d been a CIT the previous summer. From there, the three of us would travel to Guaymas, Mexico, where we’d camp out, have some quality beach time, and experience a bunch of “neat adventure stuff.” In the van, we had scuba gear packed away under one of the seats in cardboard boxes, places to sleep, and we must have had some food somewhere.
Jake and I drove to Douglas, where we connected with Jim at his parents’ house. The next day, we loaded Jim’s baggage into the van and took off across the border toward the coastal city of Guaymas, which, for some unknown reason, we’d chosen as our destination.
We had no idea what Guaymas looked like or where we’d camp when we got there. We arrived as planned and went straight to a restaurant for drinks and dinner. There were no signs or billboards indicating places to beach camp along the way into town, but we didn’t let that detract from our meal. We were confident that finding a good campsite was simply a matter of asking around.
Eventually, it was time to settle in for the night. Neither the bartender nor any of the restaurant patrons had any camping recommendations, so we just drove north along the coast in search of possibilities.
A few miles outside of town, we drove up to a locked gate covered with an abundance of signs, one of which had the word “Camping” on it. We decided it must be what we were looking for and stopped to study it more closely. It was dark, and as I squinted to decipher the Spanish, an armed guard with a thick mustache walked up and beckoned me to roll down the window. Peering into the van, it didn’t take him long to realize we were gringos.
“Ah, Americans,” he said.
He walked over to the locked gate, opened it, motioned for us to drive on in, and told us, in broken English, that we could camp wherever we pleased.
It was just how we expected things to happen. Even before we got all the way through the gate, we decided the place was just what we were looking for. We drove on in as the friendly guard tended the gate. We probably should’ve been concerned about the guard’s gun, the locked gate, and the remoteness of the location, but instead, we just started drinking vodka from the half-gallon bottle we’d purchased in town. At that point, we were confident our plan was working out well, figured there was no more driving for the day, and that things couldn’t get much better. As far as we were concerned, the situation was just what Mexico was all about. In our teenage minds, we were in a place where everything was possible.
Once through the gate, we continued along a gravel road. After a few minutes, we drove up onto a massive concrete surface with deserted buildings visible in the moonlight. We thought we were in the middle of nowhere and couldn’t figure out what we were seeing. After a few minutes, we reached the apparent end of the pavement and dropped back onto the same gravel road. At that point, we assumed we were getting ever closer to a beautiful beach with white sands, palm trees, and no people.
We continued along the gravel road for a few more minutes, and then the surface shifted to pure sand for a short distance before ending abruptly. Nearby, the surf was methodically rolling in, illuminated just enough by moonlight to be visible. We were giddy at the thought of how close we were to the water and decided to drive right out onto the beach to set up camp. But thankfully, with what turned out to be a stroke of good luck, we got bogged down in the sand, sank the rear end of the van to the axle, and came to a forced stop before we got to the water’s edge. It wasn’t the perfect camping spot we’d envisioned, but since we had no other choice, we called it good and decided to deal with the stuck part the next day. At the time, the situation was annoying, but getting stuck ultimately kept us from camping amid the high-tide surf.
Shortly after sun-up the next day, we awoke intent on getting the most out of our few days of beach time. Our first move was to walk out into the spectacular surf. The water was a bit colder than anticipated, but we weren’t about to let that minor detail affect our plans. After all, we were down in the warm country and had heard that the air temperature was supposed to be in the 70s later that day. I guess we shouldn’t have been surprised by the water temperature. After all, it was the Gulf of California, which ultimately means the Pacific Ocean—a body of water not known to be warm. But we were young, adventurous, and not prone to considering such things.
Mountains rose just inland from where we were still stuck. A mile-wide, mostly flat basin lay between the mountains and the coastline. There was a scattering of sandy beaches, but much of the shoreline was rocky and craggy. The surrounding vegetation was mostly scrub brush. There were no visible signs of people or development anywhere around, other than the gravel road that had led us to the place.
To us, it was a beach Shangri-La with the bonus of the mountains. It was beautiful, and we could see that the terrain afforded an almost endless assortment of adventure opportunities. However, while we were pleased with the surroundings, the realization that we had only a few days to do everything we had planned made us anxious. Our list of potential activities included scuba diving, ocean swimming, camping out, hiking, sunbathing, eating out, mountain climbing, and simply being in Mexico. And we were determined to do it all.
After getting the van unstuck, Jake opened his scuba gearbox, and we headed for the water. A nearby jetty protected the surrounding area from the constant pounding of the wind. From a high point on a rock near the ocean, we saw a car parked further down the coastline and realized we weren’t alone. Then, out in the water halfway between us and the car, we saw a lone swimmer slowly snorkeling toward us along the shoreline. We walked down to the water’s edge, and the swimmer saw us and swam over. He raised his head, said hello, walked in his flippers over to where we stood, and immediately began answering our questions.
He was a friendly, youngish man with long hair and mutton-chop sideburns, and he had a lot of information to offer. He was from a college in California. He was doing some sort of ocean research. An American owned the property. The mysterious buildings and the pavement were a part of the set for the movie “Catch 22.” He was camping for another day or two. The water wasn’t all that good for diving or snorkeling, etc.
After a bit, he turned, walked back into the water, and continued snorkeling. At that point, Jake began filling me in on the basics of scuba, and after about the third description of what not to do or you could die, I decided just to snorkel. So, he geared himself up and went out into the water alone. Jim just hung out on a rock, catching some rays, watching it all unfold, and undoubtedly lifeguarding. I put on a mask, snorkel, and fins and acted as though I was having a good time in the water, which was neither all that warm nor all that clear. I did my best to enjoy my time at the ocean, but found my thoughts turning from snorkeling and being in the water to mountain climbing, camping, and vodka-drinking. Since there wasn’t much enjoyment in being in the water, I soon got out of the ocean and would’ve dried off had there been a towel.
While we spent our first beach day getting the van unstuck, organizing, and scuba diving/snorkeling/pondering, on the second day, our attention turned inland, and we headed to the mountains. We opted to drive since our destination was about a mile away and we were eager to see the movie set in daylight.
The set consisted of several large burned-out buildings and a long runway. Once we knew what it was, and with the light of day, it made more sense. At the far end of the runway, a different gravel road veered off toward the mountains, and we followed it. Within a few minutes, we were a few hundred yards from a line of dry and rocky hills (or mountains as we called them) that rose perhaps 100 vertical feet above the brush-covered basin. We parked and began walking toward them, intent on climbing to any sort of summit.
When we reached the base of the mountains, Jim and I decided to follow a theoretical route that went straight up the face of one of the more prominent ones. Jake looked around and opted for another option that didn’t involve any dead vertical. He soon disappeared around a corner, and the two of us began our climb, confident we’d be up on top first since we were taking a more direct line.
For some reason, we decided I would lead the climb, and Jim would follow. I’m not sure exactly why it worked out that way, because Jim had once talked about rock climbing, and he was from Arizona, and I could claim neither. We had no actual rock climbing equipment, which was good because we wouldn’t have known what to do with it anyway, and it would’ve just gotten in the way. So, we just went with what we had.
I saw what looked like a good way to go and began climbing. Large boulders loomed above us, and I relished the moment we’d be up there, before Jake, and sitting on top while gazing out at the ocean. Unfortunately, the rock face we were going up was a bit loose, or “chossy,” as I later learned experienced rock climbers call it. It was a mix of dirt, sand, and little rocks and was crusty, probably from a recent rain. I moved up 10 feet or so from the bottom before everything I grabbed or stepped on began coming loose. Knowing just what to do, Jim put his hands under my feet to create a sort of foothold. Initially, I thought I probably just needed to look and feel around a bit to find the good stuff. But it soon came to a point where every time I moved, the surface crumbled even more. When I realized my options were dwindling, my thoughts shifted from reaching the summit to simply returning to the van alive, and I began a full retreat. Just as my moving situation was becoming dire, I noticed a fist-sized rock protruding from the face, a few inches to my left, that looked solid. I slowly and deliberately reached for it, and surprisingly, nothing crumbled. Thankfully, it was the solid handhold I needed to pull myself closer to the bottom. And so, the retreat continued.
Just then, Jake peered over the top edge and hollered down to us. Earlier, I would’ve taken that as a defeat, but at this point, I was just glad to know we were all alive and he’d made it to the top.
He yelled down that he’d meet us back at the van in an hour and then disappeared. Jim and I finally got off the rock and down, and were soon back at the VW, happy to be physically well and in familiar surroundings. After an hour or so, Jake arrived. We got into our seats and prepared to drive back to our campsite. But before we even cranked up the engine, Jake recounted two intriguing things he’d encountered along the way. First, there was a line of big rocks at the top. He’d crawled out to the edge of one to look around and yell down, but once out there, he realized it was only a slab, just a few inches thick, and was jutting out into the air all by itself. Second, he’d ultimately descended the backside of the mountain via a drainage gully and a trail of sorts. After a few minutes of hiking, he’d rounded a corner and walked right up on a beautiful naked gringa washing off under a waterfall. To a teenage boy, it was wildly unexpected. As it turns out, she was camping with the researcher. And while it’s logical that she was just out bathing, at the time, it created an interesting situation. A bit flabbergasted, he’d done what seemed the right thing to do— and just said hello and kept walking.
We had a few more days of living the good Mexican beach, mountain, and camping life, but nothing happened during that time to trump Jake’s naked girl experience. The water was never really ideal for scuba/snorkeling; we were always too spread out and in disarray to go into town, and the vodka ultimately lost its allure. Also, we realized we needed a pick of some sort if we were going to keep rock climbing. So, we just occupied our days with sand, periodic nonsense, and conjecture about whether there were naked girls under most waterfalls.
Our beach time in Guaymas eventually came to an end, and we drove back north. We pulled into Denton well after dark but with plenty of time left to get ourselves organized for the next day’s return to school. Our parents were glad to see us, but didn’t seem all that interested in the specifics of what we saw and did.
As in any adventure, there were lessons learned. During this one, I developed an appreciation for the technicalities of scuba diving, a better understanding of climbing surfaces, and a realization that not all seawater is crystal-clear and warm. I also realized, for the first time, that while pursuing a specific goal can be fun, it’s the whole experience of trying to accomplish it that’s the most rewarding. But perhaps most importantly, I concluded that intriguing adventures lurk around many corners.
A thin face climb
