At the suggestion of the security guard at the tightly sealed Baja Ferry dock, I returned promptly at 8am to purchase a ticket. I was only beat out of first in line by 50 or so very eager Mexicans. After the usual confusion with which line to get into (Mexicans are almost notorious in their aversion to lines, they prefer instead to group en masse around any point of sale), I soon had my ticket and a few hours to enjoy Mazatlàn.

I scooted back into old Mazatlàn and found a quaint cafe right near the beach for some breakfast and coffee. Behind me, I noted that there were two obvious Americans that had been ahead of me in the ferry line. My standard operating procedure is to pay other traveller's no mind until I have to.

What is it about first impressions that makes them consistently wrong? I suppose it stems from the fact that you're essentially trying to cram everything about a person's being into one local and brief experience. Anyway, my aversion to these two Americans in particular was caused by my observations of them in the ferry booth. Doe eyed and a little lost, they loudly barked questions in English to each other as they stumbled around the hectic ferry booth until they finally figured out who to talk to for a ticket. Ironically, I suppose I must have looked the same way, minus the barking bit. In fact, while running back out to get my license plate number I accidentally bumped into a younger Mexican that appeared at first glance to be a hood. Shaved head, droopy pants, tattoos, etc. I briefly apologized but he seemed not to take note.

Back at breakfast, I could easily overhear these Americans' conversation some 10 feet away. Why do American tourists have to stand out so blatantly? (I really wonder what I must look like at times...) I quickly and quietly ate my delicious huevos motulenos and was one my way to explore deeper into old Mazatlàn.

When it was time to start loading on the ferry I returned, once again, to the ferry dock and wheeled the XR around to the back to await directions. I parked right next to the Mexican hoodlum´s car. I busied myself with getting everything I needed for the 19 hour ferry ride while the guy next to me got out of his car and sauntered over.

Turns out, he was the nicest guy in the world. Antonio lives in Pennsylvania (yes, he's legal before you start thinking otherwise) and works for a landscape company that plants multi-thousand dollar trees for the wealthy. He has family in central Mexico and Baja and makes a trip every year to bring them gifts and goods. We chatted for nearly an hour, and then I saw the 2 American tourists pull up. I'm now 0 for 2, as these 2 guys were also the nicest guys in the world. Why am I such a pre-judging idiot? Jaime and Greg used to work for a huge energy company in California and are now retired. They had driven down to check out Jaime's new condo he'd just bought in Puerto Vallarta (he was born in Mexico and has dual citizenship).

I really hate to think what people think of me upon their 1st impression.

Just as we were about to board, a fellow motorcyclist pulls up next to me on an older KLR. I tried my best to not think anything as we introduced ourselves. This guy, Cory, is a bush pilot in the Yukon. He bought his bike, which had been sitting in a snowdrift for a year, for $1800 canadien and had never even started it until it was time to put it on the ferry from the Yukon down to Vancouver. On the back of his bike he had several large duffles that contained a para-glider. This crazy Canuck had travelled some 3000 miles on a bike he had never ridden to come para-gliding in Mexico. Lest I think I was hardcore!

I was looking forward to having some interesting company for the long ride ahead. But first, I had to get the XR safely secured in the ships hold. Because of their smaller size, motorcycles are the last to board. I was wishing I had known that ahead of time because that would have meant a few more hours not wasted in Mazatlán. Oh well, at least I met some interesting people and learned a lesson not to be so judgmental.

Soon after I wheeled the bike aboard the crew sealed the bay doors and I felt the boat set free from the dock. I had barely begun to tie some shock cord from the handlebars to the floor when I realized I was all alone. When the ferry is at sea, no one is allowed in the cargo bay for safety and security reasons. This means that any way up to the upper decks is sealed off by fire doors. I hastily finished tying another line and began to look around for an exit. I found the fire doors easily enough, but there was no opening them, save some sort of real emergency. The thought of 19 hours in this cargo bay, with overbearing diesal fumes and no windows to see the horizon in case the rapidly approaching nausea of sea sickness overtook me, started a slight twinge of panic in my gut. It had only been about 5 minutes, but time was irrelavant to my escape. I began to squeeze through tightly packed cars and underneath gently rocking semi-trailers, trying desperately to find anyway up. Heading back towards the bike I was really starting to regret the recent turn of events. What were the next 18.7 hours going to be like locked away in this smelly brig? I then noticed a small hatch that I hadn't seen before. With further inspection, it lead to a 2 story ladder that climbed into pitch black. I tried to convince myself that, because obviously no one knew I was still down here nor did they care, I had to take it upon myself to get out. Ignoring the thoughts that told me that I was going to set off an alarm, or be detained for being a stowaway, or worse, I carefully ascended upwards.

My eyes slowly adjusted and I could see another hatch above. A slight push let in a little daylight. No turning back now. I peeked my head through to the astonishment of a few dozen Mexican onlookers on the observation deck above. No one made a move so I continued to extricate myself. I found myself in a restricted area on the ship's stern so I quickly egresses over the rail and through a door. What nobody else knows, won't hurt me.

I spent the next 18.5 hours enjoying conversation with my new friends, getting tossed back and forth trying to sleep in high seas, and trying not to worry about how the bike was faring because I left it only partly tied down. I could not wait to be off this infernal boat and on dry land. I could not wait to rip up some dirt in Baja!

The No-Tell Motel debacle last night helped put me in better spirits. Today was going to be a good day.

The route leaving Torreòn and heading towards Durango and then Mazatlàn took me straight through the breadth of the Sierra Madres. If this majestic mountain range was anything in the south like it was in the north, then I was in for a treat.

Heading that far west meant I would pass into Pacific standard time. An extra hour to make the ferry by 3pm. It would be tough, but there was a slight chance I could cover the 300 some odd miles by then.

Just outside of Torreòn, the high desert gave way to rolling hills. Not much further, the hills began to show signs of heavy erosion. Rocky outcrops of sandstone and limestone. Craggy bluffs that pluged into river cut valleys. Random cactus and scrubbrush finding purchase in the most desperate locations. This was the entrance to the Sierra Madres.

For the first time in this trip, I really began to enjoy myself. The straight and narrow road turned twisty and exiting. With a grin on my face I sped towards Durango. I arrived in that town famous for its Vaqueros and rodeos by high noon, but the time I was making was too good, so I pressed on. Somewhere north of Zacatecas, I made a wrong turn.

I realized my mistake immediately and pulled over to whip out the map. Oddly enough, as I sat on the side of the highway, a van pulled over. A very polite Mexican woman got out and asked me if this was the road to Zacatecas. That was a first. I've been lost in every country from Mexico to Panama and this woman thought it was a good idea to ask me for directions. As her husband remained sternly behind the wheel, I noted to myself the all time truism: Real Men do not ever ask for directions.

After consulting my map I was relatively certain that I sent them in the right direction. I hope. After an illegal u-turn across the grassy highway median I was back on track. Mazatlàn by 3pm or else!

It wasn't long before I encountered every motorcyclist in Mexico's wetdream. ¡Curva Peligrosa! I have never seen so many signs telling you that danger lurked ahead around every corner. A twist of the wrist pitted me and the XR against everything they could throw at us. Chicane into split-S into decreasing radius right into gradually opening left, up and down, left and right, one after the other with no break in sight. For almost 200 miles, this road would through some of the most awe-inspiring scenery I have ever witnessed. Cliffs that plunged into nothingness. Canyons that opened into infiniti. Curves in the road that made me drool. This road that clung onto the mountain side as if it was afraid of heights. It was all I could do to keep my eyes off the vistas and where they belonged.

The elevation of Durango is about 6,000 feet. I passed peaks in the Sierras that soared above 8,000. If I was cold before, think how I felt up there. Good thing for me that the road I was on would inevitable take me to sea level. Problem is, it took 200 miles to do it.

I one of the most encouraging parts about the ride was the truckers. Those poor guys have it rough in the Sierras. It probably takes them 2 days to accomplish the same distance I did in 4 hours. But apparently they don't let that fact bother them. Almost anywhere else it seems that big trucks have it in for motorcyclists. A sort of mechanical food chain exists and we're at the bottom. I've been run off the road, almost run over and just generally looked down upon by big trucks wherever I go on the bike. But up here in the Sierras (and elsewhere in Mexico for that matter), a sort of symbiotic relationship develops.

It almost was as if they went out of there way to look out for me. As they slowly lumbered up the steep grades they would signal with their left blinker when it was safe to pass. Since their vantage point was high I had no problem trusting them. If they came to a sharp right where they would have to swing out in the oncoming lane to ensure their trailer would clear, they would signal with the right blinker telling me to stay back. I don't think I ever had to stay behind a truck for more than a few minutes before they let me pass. Otherwise, it would have taken me forever as well to get out of those mountains.

Of course, it was mutually understood that once we were both out of the Sierra Madres and back into the real world, it was game on. If we ran into each other again in the big city, I had better be on my toes.

After I passed the Tropic of Cancer I was soon near sea level. The blast of warm sea air was very welcome, but soon became overbearing. I stopped just outside of Mazatlàn to shed most of my layers and proceeded with haste to the boat docks. It was already after 3pm but I was betting on the fact that it wouldn't be the first time the ferry left late. Much to my chagrin, I pulled up to the tightly sealed entrance for the ferry dock and realized it was Sunday. There is no ferry on Sunday.

Oh well, off to find a hotel and get some grub. I quick consultation with my Lonely Planet informed me of a bargain hotel near the beach and good eateries. Within 10 minutes I had found a place to stay and was quickly engaged in a lively conversation with the hotel owner. After the usual questions he assumed my Spanish was good enough for a test. For the first time in all my travels someone told me a joke, entirely in Spanish, and I understood it well enough to get the punchline.

It goes something like this: Jose, the motorcyclist, wanted to ride up the very same road I had just come down to go visit the indiginous people that live up in the mountains. Pedro, his friend, wisely advised him to wear his jacket backwards, so that the chilly wind wouldn't find its way through his zipper and make him cold. He obliged and went on his way. Some time later, on one of the most dangerous curves in the whole canyon, he got ran off the rode by a truck and would up in a ditch. Jose was dizzy, but otherwise okay. Some indiginous people happened to witness the whole thing and ran down to help out. To their dismay, Jose's body was a mess, so they did what they thought best and twisted his head around (insert spine breaking noise here) so it lined up properly with his backwards jacket.

So it's not that funny in English, but the owner and I had a good laugh and made the neck braking sound to each other several times. As if to say: ¿Entiendes la chiste? ¡Por supuesto! Crrraaack!

After countless dozens of border crossings with the XR I'd say I've got the knack down. Using the Columbia bridge outside of town it's easy to avoid the long lines and hassles of going into Nuevo Laredo. In less than 15 minutes I had my bike permiso and tourist visa and was set to head towards Monterrey.

I was only slightly miffed that the customs agent couldn't care less about my proper Mexican insurance paper. Imagine, after I had gone through the bother of scanning in last year's certificate, changing the expiration date in Photoshop, and then printing it out at high resolution to a perfect match of proper documentation! The nerve!

The only thing that might present a problem for the day is the bank at the Columbia bridge was out of pesos. Avoiding the centro of Nuevo Leon, there is not another bank until Monterrey. All I had was dollars to get me there. I suppose this meant I was destined to take the free roads instead of the luxurios tollroads.

At the 20km checkpoint (where the free trade zone ends and you need to show documentation to enter the interior of Mexico), I got the red Alto light which meant I was to be searched. What could inspire fear in the first timer was merely routine for me. As was to be expected, a polite greeting and a slight smile from me inspired the agents to be friendly. After a cursory search -- Abre este maleta, ¿que es esto?, ¿donde viajes? -- a crowd of 6 Mexican agents had gathered around to inquire about my trip. After 5 minutes of congenial conversation, I was underway into the heart of Mexico. On to Monterrey!

The free road was not as bad as I expected. I've done the route to Monterrey several times on the tollroad so a change of scenery was a bonus. A few hours later I was on the outskirts of the large city so I was ripe for a mistake. I should have stopped at the first ATM I saw so I could withdraw some pesos. For some reason I thought it would be better to find a bank so that I could exchange some of the dollars I was holding. Afterall, the less cash you have on you, the better right?

I was almost proud of myself, the way I deftly manuevered through the bustling city straight to a bank near the center of town. With pesos in hand all I had to do was find the highway to Saltillo, and my sidetrack for currency would only cost me 20 minutes. All it takes in Mexico to dash any semblance of a plan into pieces is one missed turn. U-turns are all but impossible thanks to 2 foot curbs and divided roadways. And there is never ever a second chance exit. Because I was one lane off in my guesswork of which sign to follow to Saltillo I was thrust into an indecipherable maze of one way streets that consistently lead farther and farther away from my highway. At one point I was on the side of a hill in a residential neighborhood overlooking the very highway I needed, and yet there was absolutely no clear path down to it.

Danger, danger!! Frustration levels exceeding maximum tolerances!!

All told, my wrong turn cost me 2 hours in Monterrey and at least a few grey hairs. But on the other hand, by that point the weather had stopped drizzling on me and the afternoon must have warmed my surroundings to at least 50 degrees. Finally time to lose some layers!

After Saltillo I witnessed the first break in the clouds. I knew then that things were eventually going to go my way. I quickly shook off the unpleasant experience of being hopelessly lost in Monterrey and began to enjoy the ride into the high desert. The vegetation gradually thinned from thorny scrubbrush to sparse cactus, which revealed a stark white caliche soil below. It was strangely beautiful seeing the patches of various greens floating on a sea of white, as I zoomed on to Torreon.

My arrival into this other bustling city was greeted with a spectacular sunset. The combination of a clearing sky and the everpresent Mexico haze provided the source for a dazzling palette of colors. The few remaining clouds near the western horizon were smoldering embers slowly slowly dying and fading to black with the onset of nightfall. I was almost plunged into darkness, but I arrived in Torreon just in time.

Just in time for another mistake.

I should have consulted my Lonely Planet sometime before arriving to get the lay of the land and a vague idea of where I should stay. If I had, I would have discovered that Torreon is actually 3 cities in close proximity, each with their own centro's and individual infrastructures. This network provided the labyrinth in which I would spend the next 3 hours cursing and deriding my sense of direction. It didn't help matters that a fog had rolled in so I could no longer see the stars or the surrounding mountains. I had absolutely no idea which way was north and little hope of finding my way out once I found my way in.

It didn't help that I saw more than one street fight break out. It didn't help that the only hotels I could find were high rise Hiltons and Holiday Inns that wanted $100+ for the night. It didn't help that I was hungry and tired and sore and numb. It didn't help that this exact scenario had happened no less than 6 hours before in Monterrey. In fact, nothing much helped until in a fit of frustration I pulled into a "motel" on the outskirts of the bloated urban sprawl.

I had often seen Motels on the outskirts of Mexican cities but never gave them a second thought. It didn't strike me as odd that every one was surrounded by high concrete walls which blocked any interior view. I never really paid attention to each motel's strategic location near main arteries at the city limits. I never put two and two together until I entered the gate of this certain nameless Motel and took in what makes up the interior. Behind every one of those high concrete perimeters that every motel has is row upon row of concrete bays with heavy curtains or tarps concealing the "room" behind. No wonder the lady working the front had a quizzical look on her face as she asked me ¿Cuantas horas?

How many hours? Holy crap, I don't belong here! A quick and graceful perdoname! in conjunction with an agile u-turn put me back out on the street where I found myself face to face with a young and dapper couple destined for the Motel. It all made sense now. With a smirk on his face the guy lead his girl for the night into the Motel for a few hours of fun. With a smirk on my face I quickly regressed down the highway and soon found a reputable Hotel for the night for a few hours of rest.

It will never cease to amaze me how one little turn of events can take the most dire of emotions and change it into one of amusement. And that is how it goes when travelling alone on a dirtbike in Mexico. It just takes one wrong turn to find frustration, but it's only one wrong turn more to find (mis)adventure.

I didn't make it into Mexico today. The weather and last minute details slowed me down, so I decided to stay the night stateside and cross first thing in the morning. What a difference a year makes! Pulling away from my house I noticed that I wasn't nervous in the slightest. Afterall, this trip should hopefully prove to be tenfold easier than the trek to Panama. But of course, only time will tell.

My morning started with a greeting of some bitterly cold weather. I was layered to the point that my mobility suffered, and yet after a few hours I still felt chills creeping down my spine. I don't know what the windchill is with a 70mph wind, but I can tell you it feels damn cold! The clouds were still threatening rain/sleet but for the time being they were holding back.

I stopped off in New Braunfels to see my friends at http://af1racing.com so I could do an oil change and some other minor adjustments. Nothing like waiting until the last minute! Those guys were kind enough to buy me lunch as a sort-of send off. It's almost like I used to work there. After lunch they took me out back to show off their new ramp. I expected a 1-2' dirt berm with plenty of room on both sides. Apparantly my crazy friends have enough free time to fashion a 5' launch complete with a wide landing ramp. They invited me to take the XR off of it, but that conjured up visions of me breaking an arm before I even crossed the border. I politely declined, and felt a pang of remorse that I didn't still work with these guys.

With a mid-afternoon departure from AF1 I knew that the smart thing to do was stop short in Laredo. And then the rain started. Nothing quite like being cold and wet. I was satisfied that I had prepared to the point that my gear withstood the elements as long as they did. I wasn't completely miserable until just before Laredo. Several passing cars gave me the thumbs-up, waves of approval, and blown kisses of buen viaje; undoubtedly as the strange image took hold in their minds of a lone rider on a pack mule of a dirt bike heading south. This was exactly the encouragement I needed.

In my travels I've learn to become annoyed if I have to spend more than $20 on a hotel. Every possible place to stay in this border town wanted at least $50 for the night. I eventually caved into one that offered free breakfast. Little did they know that my $50 included garage parking for the XR. I almost got my money's worth.

It's amazing how the mind forgets. It has only been a year since I last subjected myself to hours upon hours, miles upon endless miles, astride the XR. After arriving home from Panama I nearly vowed to never ride that butt-numbing machine again. And now here I am again voluntarily subjecting myself to the same perturbations. Except it gets even better when you consider the miserable weather. What the hell am I thinking?

With everything that seems overwhelmingly wrong with the situation, there is no denying that there is something that just seems right. A quiet sense of freedom to combat the pulsing drone of the engine. A subdued feeling of confidence spurred on by a necessity for self reliance. Me and the XR, riding off into the unknown, in search of adventure.

Tomorrow I cross the border.