The side road, if one can call it that, is a
faintly discernible skein of dirt track and
crumbling rock that rattles the brain and
tests the mettle of our rented Jeep Wrangler.
“The ranch is right up on that ridge, to the
left of El Batequi,” says Trudi Angell, pointing
to a lone peak that thrusts into the cloudless
horizon. She’s the founder of Loreto-based
Saddling South, an outfit that specialises in
mule pack trips, and my guide to the Sierra
de San Francisco mountains. I shift into
four-wheel drive, and we rumble past giant
cactuses, sun-bleached cattle carcasses and
rock art that dates back thousands of years.
Such a landscape anywhere else would draw
crowds. Out here, in the central badlands of
Mexico’s dangling, northwesterly peninsula,
there’s no one in sight.
We drop into a dried creek, the silt-choked
engine groaning in complaint. As punishing
as the drive is, this is exactly what I’ve come
for: a parallel universe beyond the reach of
modern comforts and reliable internet. In the
summer of 2017, after spending the better part
of a decade in California, my then-pregnant
wife and I packed our truck on a whim and
struck out for Baja at the height of summer,
in search of simpler living and solitude. We
found it in a Pacific beach town called Todos
Santos, near the peninsula’s southern tip.
We bought some land near the ocean, had
two boys at home and adopted a dog, some
chickens and several horses. There would be
no going back.
But as the novel became routine, the
desert outback we’d streaked past on that
first cannonball run began to call me. Adding
to its allure were my occasional encounters
with vaqueros (cowboys), who’d swagger into
town on horseback for annual festivals or to
sell their wares at the ranch market. These
were tough people who eked a living off a
lean landscape in much the same way their
SOMEWHERE NEAR ROAD MARKER 101,
A BEER CAN DANGLING FROM A WISP
OF OCOTILLO CACTUS INDICATES IT’S
TIME TO TURN OFF BAJA CALIFORNIA’S
TRANSPENINSULAR HIGHWAY.
Spanish ancestors did centuries ago, when
they were brought to Baja to fend off pirates
and manage herds of cattle. My intrigue
developed into fascination, and some local
friends suggested I get in touch with Trudi,
who’d developed deep relationships with
vaquero families from 30 years of running
mule pack trips to some of the most remote
pockets of the peninsula. Together, we’d
plotted a road trip through the heart of my
new homeland.
Some 15 miles from the nearest paved
road, we pull up to the homestead of Ricardo
‘Tete’ Arce Aguilar, a softly spoken vaquero
with a brushy, black moustache. “Welcome
to Rancho Los Datilitos,” he says, giving
me a strong handshake. With a vegetable
garden and citrus trees set among clapboard
buildings and a concrete water tank, the
ranch strikes me as a kind of oasis. But
the arid wilderness stretching beyond is,
I quickly learn, a very different story. This
stretch of the mountains hasn’t seen rain for
almost two years, Ricardo tells me. In the
midst of this drought, the only water comes
from a PVC pipe that leads to a spring eight
miles away — a lifeline for the handful of
ranches in the area. I pluck a tangerine from
one of Ricardo’s trees, and savour the juice in
the near 40C heat.
For all the challenges facing his way of
life, Ricardo insists that quitting is out of
the question. He’s worked the land as long
as he can remember, only boarding an
aeroplane for the first time in 2015, to take
part in a cultural exchange with US cowboys
in Nevada. But it wasn’t long before Ricardo
missed the quiet rhythms of home. “Life is so
much more tranquil here,” he says. “There’s
a lot of work to do but there’s less stress than
in town.”
In normal times, Ricardo and his family
supplement their cattle income by guidingCLOCKWISE FROM
TOP LEFT: Moonrise in
Valle de Santa Marta,
a seven-hour trail ride
from Chema and Nary’s
ranch; Nary at Rancho
Mesa San Esteban, in the
Sierra de San Francisco;
Rancho Aguajito de la Tía
Adelaida in Valle de Santa
Marta; Linda at work in
the kitchen at Rancho
Mesa San Esteban
PREVIOUS PAGES FROM
LEFT: Ignacio ‘Nacho’
Arce Arce adjusts his
riding boot and a polaina
(gaiter) he made
himself; the road to Valle
de Santa Marta110 nationalgeographic.co.uk/travel
MEXICO