We went mountain biking up the coast, and it was right out of a mountain biking magazine:  we found an arroyo with hard and smooth packed sand (the sand here is usually loose), and we could ride anywhere, through the shrubs and between the many weird cactuses, following the stream bed.  My camera ran out of batteries right after I took this picture though, oh well.

We found an old mine which looked like a Mayan ruin, and from the top of the hill we could see we were actually still within the boundaries of El Gringo Locoville.  What gave it away was the white painted rocks forming borders wherever possible.  It seems American ingenuity found a substitute for the white picket fence. 

There's a lot of American retirees here.   Some are the gringo loco variety, but others are unbelievably interesting.   This morning at dawn Rina left our camp announcing she was somehow going either dune buggying or motorcycle riding, and she returned at sunset beaming, having met a 73 year-old American ex-pat who took her dirt bike riding, boating, fishing, and gave her the insider's tour.  If you've got an outdoor stripe and can handle the stillness and general adversity of the desert, this would be a hell of a place to settle down.  We also met a carload of hippyish girls in their early twenties who'd just signed a 10-year lease on a plot of land right on the water, $600/year.  Their plan is to build a house (with a sweatlodge, naturally), and work in Arizona in two week spurts so they can come down here for a month at a time.  It's a 14 hour drive from Arizona, but other than that it sounds like a fabulous plan.

 

We spent the night watching Baja television, otherwise known as the firepit.  The programming was excellent while the cactus wood lasted, and nobody had to go searching for the remote control.  We're staying here tomorrow as well, a whole much-need day to laze around.  So until then, hasta la vista baby from deeper and deeper Baja.