South of El Rosario, Baja California becomes other-worldly. A few scattered towns cling desperately to the main road every fifty miles or so. Some are virtual ghost towns nearly uninhabited save for a handful of entrenched diehards standing vigil as their town slowly and inexorably dissolves back into the desert. Starving curs run frightened through the weed-choked parking lots of long-forgotten garages, motels, and gas stations – lonely and hollowed ruins faded in the baking sun. Vast stretches of highway completely devoid of proper gas stations prove impossible to cross without men selling gasolina by the liter out of battered and rusting 55-gallon drums strapped in the back of pickups.
The road itself such a thin and trivial slip that with no imagination at all you can see it disappear and with it any indication that people have ever existed in this land. Even the sky, free of contrails, shows no signs of human life. I pass a lone wild horse grazing at the road’s edge on scrubgrass and wonder if this is a descendant of one of the horses that carried Poncho Villa and his men through so many pages of our history books.
I gotta get some rest. We ride again in the morning.