Desert Cement

"Could I start you gentlemen off with some drinks?" the waitress at an empty steakhouse in Deming, New Mexico inquired.

"Sure,  I'll have a Tecate," Ed, a staff photographer from a skateboard magazine, replied before the rest of us had the time to respond.

"What about you?" she asked me, moving around the table clockwise.

 Startled, I looked up from my phone, "uhhh, I'll have another Dos Equis."

"Me to0,"  Jason added, draining the remnants of the round of beer we had ordered at the bar.

Before the rest of the contingent of our  group could select their flavor of cheap beer,  she blurted, "I have to ask,  are you guys in a band?"

Laughter broke out amongst the six of us.  Earlier that day at a Denny's outside of Tucson,  our waiter had asked a similar question.

"No.  we are skateboarders," Mike said smiling.

"Ohh my son is a really into skateboarding. What are you doing in Deming?" she let slip with a hint of booze in her manner.

"We are on a road trip looking for abandoned pools and ditches."

 "Are you guys pros?!

"Thats' Mike Vallely,"  Tyler slurred after a day of drinking Tecates in the back of the Elephant van.

Everyone except for Tyler and the waitress cringed.

"Would you be interested in signing your autograph for him? He'd be thrilled."

"Of course, I'd be happy too.  Do you have a Sharpie?  We'll all sign it for him," Mike said turning towards the rest of us sitting at the booth.

Three days earlier,  I left my Syncro in LA and met up with Mike and the Elephant Skate crew for a week-long trip toeing the Mexican border through Arizona, New Mexico and Texas.  On the search for abandoned pools and street spots, we explored floundering housing developments and  drainage ditches throughout the desert. Dusting off my skateboard, I tagged along with a crew of veteran skaters and filmmakers, hearing their stories from years on the road.

No vacancy and no maintenance.

After the shot.

Sunset session.

The New Mexico prairie.  

Jason and Tyler watching.

Mike ripping the hook.

Ed Dominick and Mark Nisbit capturing. 

Close to the border. 

Mike sweeping out a pool.

Road rash in the making.

Urban exploration.

Signage.

Tyler Mummar doing a layback.

Red, White and Blue #vanlife. 

Jason Adams taking a breather.

Fullpipe.

Our trusty Ford E series Van.

Ready to rip.

A minute after I took this photo,  a large pit bull chased Ed and Tyler over the fence.

As promised,  the waitress reappeared after the steaks and burgers were finished with a medium sized Sharpie and a printout of Mike airing on a quarter pipe.  Standing in excitement, she watched as the print and Sharpie made its way around the table.

Ed handed me the paper and Sharpie and I nervously contemplated my signature.  Cursive or print?  Looking over the photo for some free real-estate,  I took a moment to read the signatures. Tyler, Jason Adams and Mike Vallely's signatures were well-honed, but on the verge of legible.  Mark's resembled a check signature with every character clearly scribed.  Where was Ed's?  A large printed name offered a hint.

Looking over at Ed, I burst out laughing.

"What?  I always sign this shit as Peter North."

Here are some links,

Desert Cement (Facebook),

@Fosterhunting (Twitter),

Elephant Skateboards.

Travelers of Baja

A laundry list of potential obstacles including but not limited to banditos, food poisoning, crooked cops, car problems and drug cartels applies to the US/Mexico border. Horror stories echo around the internet and campfire conversations.  This cycle of truth and exaggeration keeps going until many travelers scratch Baja off their list of places to visit.  Some accept these risks in search of empty waves, cheap travel and a desire to see what the West was like before it was developed.   These are some of the vehicles of the travelers I came across in Baja:

Rhinolined from head to toe.

 Best it's ever been.

My Syncro.

Travels with Charlie.

Schooly and VW.  These guys are in it for the long haul.

Note the ninja turtle.

Shredded.

His and her campers and surfboards.

#vanlife.

Some travelers come for a weekend while others stay for months or years.  Their vehicles range in size and price but all enable people to explore a place that many avoid.

Here are some more links,

Travels of Baja (Facebook),

@Fosterhunting (Twitter).

Taco Denominations

Parked on a dirt road adjacent to a block of second-hand stores in Guerrero Negro, Dan and I sat in the Syncro reading.  Pulling my head out of The Monkey Wrench Gang, I looked into the rear view mirror and saw a familiar figure emerge from a crowded alley brandishing a mess of black and neon-blue neoprene.

"Noo way,  Trevor found a wetsuit," I announced to Dan.

"Bull shit."

Dan turned around and shoved his head out the window.

"How much was it?" He yelled as Trevor avoided a large puddle presumed to harbor giardia, athlete's foot and an aggressive strain of Montezuma's revenge.

"650 pesos."

"Holy shit," I laughed.

"Yeah yeah, I know, taxed.  He was trying to get 750 but I got him down a hundred.  There's no way I'm wearing that piece of shit again," Trevor explained, extending his free hand towards a disintegrating wetsuit tied to the roof rack. "I froze my ass off last night."

"Dude, but still, 650 pesos that's -- 55 tacos.  Depending on Carne Asada or fish. No way that shit's worth 55 tacos.  Did you even try it on?"

"Nope. There was no place to, but I'm pumped on it."

"Have it your way dude..."

"Speaking of tacos,  lets stop by that stand on the way out of town.  I'm fiending."

With the cost of tacos ranging from 10 to 15 pesos depending on flavor,  we quickly started converting the prices of  items, like Trevor's wetsuit and a liter of gas into taco denomination.  Adjust for diferences in cost of living and exchange rate,  thinking of things in terms of tacos made them tangible.

Birria Tacos, Pescado Tacos, Carne Asada Tacos,  Carnitas Tacos, Cabeza Tacos, and Pastor Tacos all for between 10 and 15 pesos.

Our freshly speared fish taco operation.

Tortilleria.

Gringo.

The recycling bin at a beach side taco spot.

Tacos and Juice.  Laid Back.

Stopping on the way out of town at a taco shop bustling with locals, we placed our orders.  Anticipating five days' of camping food,  I took the snake technique, and ordered four carne asada and four pescado. In Baja's small towns, these taco shops are a staple, offering similar items at consistant prices.   Living in a cycle of five days' camping and one day in town resupplying,  a lot of our attention, especially as our fresh food ran low three days into a camping trip, focused on these tacos.  We debated condiments, favorite variations and specific shops.   These photos are a compilation of our favorite taco shacks in Baja.

Here are some more links, Tacos Currency (Facebook), @Fosterhunting (Twitter).

Best it's Ever Been: Hunting for Waves in Baja California Sur

"You should have been here two weeks ago.  Twenty-foot faces,"  a voice behind us said. Standing in the sand looking at the ocean,  Dan, Trevor and I immediately turned to see a tan, fifty-year old man in a hooded sweatshirt leaning casually against a palapa.  He popped a can of Tecate stuffed into a black neoprene wetsuit glove.

"Best it's ever been."  100% Emphatic.

Dan and I looked at each other as if figuring out whose turn it was to clean the dishes.

"No shit,  really?" I said, answering the void.

"Yup.  A buddies coming by later with photos from the day. The wave connected all the way to the beach," he said motioning from the point left towards the beach with his beer in hand.  The fingers of the glove-turned-koozie jiggled in the light wind.  "I've been surfing here for thirty years,  hands down the best I've seen it."  He took a chug of the beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"Damn,  we rode that swell in California.  It was pretty fun there too."

"How were the waves this morning?"  Dan asked.  "Does it always blowout like this in the afternoons?"  Dan nodded towards the ocean.

"Yeah, pretty much. It has its days though.  Sometimes it holds off all day,"  he said looking towards his wind chimes made from beer cans and broken surfboards. He took another swig of his beer.  "The waves were fun this morning. A little crowded though, 'cuz it's the weekend and all."

Pausing for a second, I looked at my watch.  ST stands for Saturday.  After three weeks camping,  the days blend together with no functional difference between a Tuesday and Sunday.

"You boys staying the night?  I hear the swells building."

"Yeah we are thinking about it,"  Dan responded.

#campvibes.

Three benches with a view of the ocean.

Quiver.

 A deserted lighthouse.

 

A cacti forest.

 Handed-painted signs.

Red, white and blue in Baja.  The man with the neoprene koozie's boards.

Moo.

Two tents and a van.

Rocky coasts on the Sea of Cortez.

Endless deserts.

That night, the swell built as the man with the glove koozie had predicted.  Waking to take a piss a few hours before sunrise,  the pounding waves shook the ground and the moon light reflected off white water.  Debating if he was full of shit or not,  I lay in my sleeping bag watching the occasional satellite work its way through the clear night sky.  He didn't seem like a bullshitter,  but Baja sure does attract a wild bunch of people. "I guess the photos would leave little to debate," I thought to myself before slipping back to sleep.

We never saw the photos of him surfing, but the next morning, he was out in the lineup.  After kicking out of a double overhead right,  he paddled by.  "Twice this big,  and perfect."

Grinning ear to ear, he kept paddling.

Looking over at Dan, I conceded, "Maybe it was as good as it's ever been, but who cares.  This is as good as we could ask for."

Here are some more links,

Baja California Surf (Facebook),

Fosterhunting (Twitter).