La Trinidad Canyon

I am not entirely sure why Father and Brother have opted to join me, but I trust their real reasons for traveling 1,727 miles into and out of the southern peninsular state of Baja California Sur have more to do with their mutual interest in Peter Benchley's The Girl of the Sea of Cortez than the idea of long days on the road, and damp nights in roadside tents. "We all read that book," father said. "He wrote it after Jaws because of people's response to the movie."

While we salute each other with the tip of margarita glasses, an older lady across the restaurant taps a hair-dyed-red biker on the shoulder. She says, "I didn't recognize you with your clothes on." Her husband leans over and says, "Honey, wrong table," The two, in a Daiquiri stupor, cause an uproar of laughter from the biker's table. "They're over there," her husband says, pointing to our table.

The lady leans over Brother Hans and says, "I didn't recognize you with your clothes on!" We had surprised Mrs. Carlisle near the mouth of the canyon of El Trinidad when Brother Hans opted to swim across the narrows rather than take the foot-path along the ledge. She had been watching birds, which I found to be appropriate, since she had the expressions of a birdwatcher: bookish glasses, and an eternal look of spryness and elderly spunk.