The day as turned warm and clear as I leave Guadalajara,
following Highway 15 south toward Lake Chapala. The sprawl goes on forever,
no-tell motels and department stores and gated subdivisions. Badly in need of a
shower, I even stop at one of the motels. The receptionist speaks from behind
one-way glass using an intercom. She seems perplexed that I am alone. No, the
special is for four hours; the whole night price is too high. The next stop is
in a small village off the highway. There are no hotels here, an old man
sitting on a park bench tells me. The night is mild, with an edge of damp cool.
My last chance is in a town called Jocotepec. Cruising the
nighttime streets, I find a family hotel charging 17 bucks. The room is
dilapidated, but the shower is hot. The town plaza is quiet this evening. A few
teenagers walk by, playing music on their phones, excited like all teens to be
out on the town after dark. I down a few Oxxo beers and pass out in my room
with the light on and the music playing.
The previous July in Big Bend National Park, I had met a
retired Swiss couple who lived in Chapala, just down the road from Jocotepec.
After helping them plan their stay in the park, we got to talking about Mexico,
and I expressed my desire to take a long road trip through the country. They
gave me their personal card, adding that if I ever made it down to Lake
Chapala, I could stay with them for a day or two. But such promises are
casually made, with no intention of fulfillment, by many folks. Giving them a
call, I was met with disdain and suspicion. You gain some, you lose some.
The lakeshore in Jocotepec is marshy, and Mexico’s largest
lake lies brown and smelly under the fishing pier in the park, which could
almost pass for some Midwest Great Lakes town park. Joggers run a gravel trail,
dogwalkers stroll with their pooches under a gloomy sky. Again, a great
loneliness overtakes me as as I gaze out over the lake. It is time to do more
than aimlessly wander from town to town. But the north shore of the lake was
all wealthy homes with walls and gates, gringo fortresses, hip cafes and
restaurants. By contrast, the south shore was farm towns, small plots dotted
with humble houses, dirt lanes. This is fertile country, well-watered, heavily
populated.
Looking for a secluded place to smoke a joint and look out
across the lake, I find a dirt road that traverses a construction site and runs
out into a flooded pasture on the edge of the lake before getting submerged
itself. My reverie is interrupted, though, by the arrival of the work crew and
the owner, who parks on the dirt road, blocking me in. So is this where it all
ends, a California narco teaching me
a lesson about trespassing on his job site? But then the owner helps his tiny
daughter out of the passenger seat. No longer in danger, the situation now
becomes one of awkward waiting while the owner strolls around his property with
the foreman and his daughter, discussing various aspects of the construction.
After an interminable wait, he finally leaves; I take a deep breath and
nonchalantly back along the narrow road until I can get back on the highway,
which leads up into scrubbily forested hills.
On the border with Michoacán state, I find a dirt ranch road
that splits up and fades into the brush. Decent campsite, quiet, secluded. Then
dusk falls, and as if released by a malicious spirit, an expeditionary force of
vicious mosquitoes swarms my truck. Their numbers are staggering, despite being
over a mile from the lake and on top of a high ridge. Duct tape does not hold
the netting securely against the onslaught, so rolling up the windows is the
only option. Fortunately, the night is cool up here, nearly 7000 feet above sea
level.