Mud, Sweat and Gears
By May Tettero | Photography by Sky Tettero-Crosby
A mother and son tackle the rugged Baja Divide bikepacking route, and along the way discover resilience, humour and a strengthened bond.
I wake just before 5 am and survey the damage. My tent is soaking wet and has nearly collapsed onto me. My down-filled sleeping bag feels soggy in places. Thankfully, I am still warm and had a decent sleep despite last night’s wind and rainstorm. Nearby, I hear my son Sky lightly snoring in his tent.
We are eight days into our adventure on the Baja Divide, a challenging 1,730- mile bikepacking route connecting the Pacific Ocean and the Sea of Cortez through remote ranchos, mountain ranges, historic missions, and desert trails in Baja California. Our journey began on March 8 in San Diego, and we’ve already ridden nearly 400 kilometres of the 800 kilometres we’ll cover together. At 60 years young, I feel humbly happy that Sky, who turned 40 earlier this year, suggested we embark on this trip. We both know I’ll slow him down—Sky is an experienced ultra-distance bike racer. But I’ve prepared as best I could—I’ve trained for the challenging climbs close to home, the Niagara Escarpment offering many gorgeous and challenging gravel climbs. Road 7B up to Old Baldy in the Beaver Valley has been particularly perfect.
I search for my headlamp and pull my toque snugly over my ears. Stepping outside the tent, I’m greeted by a star-filled sky atop this isolated hill where we’re wild-camping. Sky joins me shortly after, and in the early dawn, guided only by our headlamps’ red glow, we make coffee and oatmeal on our single-burner stove.
Today’s destination is a remote ranch at 1,000 metres elevation, with a view of the Sierra San Pedro Martir Mountains—a favourite stopover for bikepackers and quail hunters. It’s just 40 kilometres ahead, and I eagerly anticipate arriving shortly after lunch for a leisurely afternoon. I could use a break.
Mud clings to our tires as we traverse grassy ranch land. Once on the narrow gravel road, clumps of mud spray around us, splattering my face and the backs of my legs.
“Maybe we should head back to the last town,” I cautiously suggest.
“Why would we do that?” Sky asks.
“Well, with all that rain, there could be peanut butter mud ahead…” My voice trails off.
“No, it’ll be fine,” he reassures me.
Still, worry creeps in. We’re isolated, and rain clouds are looming. I dread backtracking, but what if we become stuck and the weather deteriorates? I notice Sky’s powerful legs pumping hard and know I must hustle to keep him within sight.
We ride through a picturesque valley, crossing a series of streams. Initially careful to keep dry, we soon abandon hope as we repeatedly wade across, soaking shoes and wool socks thoroughly. By midday, the sun occasionally emerges, renewing my hope of drying our gear at El Coyote. We stop for lunch and Sky cooks up delicious quesadillas complete with onion, tomato, avocado and fine herbs. It’s quite a treat to witness that my cooking skills have transferred to my son. After three decades of child raising, it is I who gets nourished with good food, humour and reassurances.
Ascending single-track switchbacks, we pass two concrete buildings flanking the path. A rancher, stocky and surly, hands deep in his jeans, greets us with a gruff “buenos días,” more obligatory than out of sympathy for our crazy journey. Descending becomes treacherous; rain and cattle hooves have transformed the soil into sticky, impassable mud akin to peanut butter. Our tires quickly become encased, stopping our progress. Clearing mud proves futile. Exhausted, I insist Sky seek help from the rancher to drive us onward. As I look up to my tall son, I see his jaw clench slightly and his body stiffen. I know he doesn’t want to do this; he doesn’t like to ask for help. But I’m his mother so he buckles to my plea, turns around and starts trudging back up the steep hill, a pound of clay clinging to each shoe.
“Tell him your mother can’t go any further!” I yell after him.
My heart sinks when Sky returns with the news that the rancher doesn’t own a truck. We struggle onward. “We need another plan,” I say. “We still have 12 kilometres to go and three hours of daylight.” After a brief discussion, we decide to leave the bikes and hike the rest of the way, hoping a truck at El Coyote might bring us back to retrieve them.
We are eight days into our adventure on the Baja Divide, a challenging 1,730 mile bikepacking route connecting the Pacific Ocean and the Sea of Cortez…
Sky is uneasy about abandoning the bikes and insists we hide them halfway down a ravine, marking their location with inukshuks and photos. After briskly walking two kilometres, conditions unexpectedly improve.
“See, it’s fine now,” Sky says, always optimistic.
“Yes, but what if it’s peanut butter mud again over the next hill?” I reply, ever cautious.
We laugh at our indecision and turn back to retrieve the bikes, acknowledging we’ve wasted an hour. Determined not to complain, I resolve to push onward.
The trail finally improves enough to ride again. With daylight fading, we push hard, navigating erosion, steep climbs, and rocky riverbeds. As darkness envelops us, we switch on our headlights. “Stay close and talk to me until we arrive,” I ask Sky, coyotes howling nearby.
At 10 pm, we reach El Coyote, finding it deserted. Cold and hungry, we discover unlocked rustic cabins. Stepping inside, I feel like Goldilocks finding the perfect refuge—three beds neatly made with warm woollen blankets. Sky hesitates about our “break-in,” but agrees it’s ideal for recovery. After tea and a simple meal, I collapse gratefully beneath heavy blankets, warm and fully relaxed.
Our trip continued for another week, until I stopped riding in Catavina, completing 800 kilometres and climbing 12,000 metres. Sky bravely continued through a challenging 200-kilometre section without food or water resupply, meeting me several days later before we returned to San Diego together by bus. I cherish these adventures we share, and this journey feels particularly special. E
May Tettero is a grandmother, cyclist, and hiker living near Walter’s Falls in Grey County. She works as a psychotherapist in private practice in Owen Sound. When not working or visiting family, she enjoys hiking the Bruce Trail or cycling Grey County.
