Written on February 28th, 2015

Today was bright but overcast, and the wind picked up, so we put off our snorkeling trip to La Seranita until mañana. Or whenever. Yesterday’s snorkeling at Los Arbolitos was perfect. South winds kept the north-facing beach calm and the sun was bright in a cloudless sky. The water was pretty warm near shore, but I was happy to have my shorty wetsuit on when we got into deeper water.

They were blocking my path and looking at me intently. Were these friendly cows? Or homicidal maniac cows? Even a friendly cow this size could do some damage with an affable nuzzle.

The Sea of Cortez is a great place to snorkel. Fish are abundant so the resident sharks are well fed and not terribly interested in humans. We saw sardines for the first time; schools of them surrounded us as we swam from one reef to the next, and behind them was a fairly large Green Jack. When we surfaced I asked Steve if he’d seen it. His response was, “No, I’m not a Pepin.”

My cousin Roger is an outdoor enthusiast. He hunts, fishes, tracks wildlife and can walk through a forest more quietly than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s passed these traits along to his kids, and some of his siblings and nephew have the same talent. All Pepins. While we were on our honeymoon in Africa I spotted birds and animals many times before the guides did. Steve chalks this all up to being a Pepin. No matter whether on land or under the sea.

Well, being a Pepin didn’t help me today when I decided to hike instead of hit the beach. The Mexican government obviously spent money creating the Cabo Pulmo trail, with a nice sign showing the map of the trail and where the markers for the historic sites could be found. What they didn’t do was mark the trail itself, as what I thought was the obvious direction led me astray after about a quarter of a mile. I picked it up again, and finally found a marker, directing me off the well-worn road onto a foot-wide rock-lined goat path. The rocks soon disappeared and I was left to fend for myself with no markers. There were hoof prints, so I figured the horseback riding company in the village must lead tours up there, so I followed. I wasn’t expecting the whinny from the side of the hill below, where a horse was tethered. I’m not sure who scared whom the most. I kept climbing, and on a rocky incline I’m most apt to keep an eye on my footing, and watch for snakes while taking breaks to look around and see the sights. When I finally looked up the sights in front of me were bulls. Quiet ones, three of ‘em. Not tethered. Crap. I wasn’t close enough for them to charge me without some difficulty, and I couldn’t tell if the path would lead me right to them, so I skulked quietly back from whence I came.

When I found the main pathway again and started back toward the village after deciding to give up on the “trail”, I heard cowbells. A whole bunch of cowbells. Running toward me were a heard of cows. I eyeballed them for a bull, but couldn’t be sure so I stepped off the path and waited. They were blocking my path and looking at me intently. Were these friendly cows? Or homicidal maniac cows? Even a friendly cow this size could do some damage with an affable nuzzle. So I went off the grid and through the scrub to avoid them, and they watched me the whole time. When I was past them and back on the road they trotted after me for a bit, the Cabo Pulmo version of running with the bulls.

Farmers here, mostly squatters from what we’ve been told, let their livestock run around hither and yon. One of the reasons it’s suggested tourists not drive to Cabo Pulmo after dark is because the twisting, turning roads with no streetlights for much of the way here are great camouflage for a marauding bull. Well, deicing in Boston made us miss our connection and our arrival was well past our original time. Since Cabo Pulmo is so off the beaten track we stock up on groceries after getting through customs, immigration and renting a car. Then we have a two-hour drive. The first time we did this drive a dozen years ago we had a similar situation; a missed connection and a late arrival. We got beer and bare essentials at a convenience store and, map in hand, drove off. A couple of times, especially on the 6 mile dirt road approaching Cabo Pulmo, we couldn’t see over the rise and crept up to it, terrified there was nothing but a sheer drop on the other side. That night there was a full moon reflecting off of the sea which made me a tad more comfortable. This time it was pretty dark, the rented Nissan Versa’s high beams weren’t very different than the low beams, and we barely missed a broadside collision with two large bulls. Moose large. The Versa’s brakes may never be the same.

The house we’re renting has an ochre colored cement wall around it, which keeps the dust from the road down but blocks our view of anything but the occasional big beer delivery van, camper or the daily pickup truck with eight guys standing up in the back. Try THAT in the U.S. We can hear the sea and the birds, somebody’s generator every now and again, the sporadic cars, and pretty much every afternoon a bunch of horses that have slipped out of the paddock and are on the run through town. It will be quiet, just birds and the breeze, an occasional chicken and then neighing. And hoof beats. It makes me laugh every time it happens. Then there is a lot of yelling and the horses are rounded up.

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Just another day in Cabo Pulmo.

Deborah