The White-Knuckled Conclusion Of A Two-Part Series! By Kevin Franklin SOMETHING IS MOVING out there," I say to fellow Baja explorer Yvonne Mery. "Rats," I mutter, staring into the dark. I switch on my flashlight and its beam sends dark things scurrying for cover. "Lots of them." Our camp sits on an ancient lava flow overlooking the Sea of Cortez. When we rolled in this afternoon, it seemed the idyllic secluded cove. But as twilight fades into night, it becomes apparent the hundreds of pockets, cracks and fissures in the volcanic rock make a veritable apartment complex for an army of rodents. These are desert rodents. Probably the cactus mouse, says Yar Petryszyn, University of Arizona curator of mammals, after hearing my description. While cactus mice pose no danger to our flesh at night, the hungry herbivores do threaten our supplies. I turn up the camp light, which keeps them at bay during dinner. Shelby the wonder dog chases them around the rocks, advising them to reconsider a frontal assault on our food box. After dinner, we lock the food in the truck and plan the next leg of our journey down the east coast of Baja. The International Travel Map Production's Mexico: Baja California 1:1,000,000 map ranks as one of the most useful tools for traveling through Baja. Among other things, the map lists the different beach camp names. From their labels you can gain insight into who goes there. North of San Felipe, you find names like "Campo Hawaii," "Campo Peewee" and "Club Live and Let Live." Obviously, these areas gear themselves toward the university spring break party set. South of San Felipe you encounter places like "Vivian's Camp" and "Campo Diamante" (Camp Diamond), more or less aimed at the richer and older RV types. The area south of Puertecitos and just north of Isla El Huefanito (Little Orphan Island) is blank on the map and becomes our destination. The dirt part of Highway 5 stretches out like a 50-mile monument to the phenomena of washboard road. Any loose parts on your car will fall off after a few miles and any tight components, including your teeth, will be noticeably shaken. Alas, the future of Baja seems paved with American dollars. Thousands of gringo houses fester on the seashore like zits on a teenager. San Di-fucking-ego here we come. But away from the encroaching home sites, we find a tranquil cove to set up camp. Crystal blue water laps onto the beach, flanked on either side by vertical cliffs. Pure bliss, I think to myself staring out at the open sea. "Something's moving over there," Mery says. The stones on the beach begin stirring. Startled, I look closer and see the stones themselves remain still, but the tens of thousands of what are best described as a sea cockroaches have begun scurrying over them, presumably after overcoming fear of our initial approach. The occasional cockroach skittering by rarely troubles me. But the scene unfolding before us comes right out of a horror movie. A football-sized rock might have 15 or more of these gray, leggy critters on it. Out-numbered by about a million to three, we beat a hasty retreat. From our description, Petryszyn determines our arthropod associates are isopods in the genus Ligia. Basically, they're crustaceans roaming the tide line in search of decaying debris. They exist in such huge numbers because nothing can stand their taste, he says. In short, sea cockroaches. Five miles down the road we find another beach, unplagued by mice, ligia or, worst of all, gringo home sites. We enjoy it while we can. GETTING THERE Take Interstate 8 east to Calexico, California, and make the border crossing into Mexicali, Mexico. Follow the signs for San Felipe to the south, keeping on Highway 5 until it turns to dirt and you find your own beach. Be sure to purchase insurance here in Tucson before you go. The entire peninsula of Baja is considered the frontier zone, so no passport is required, but it never hurts to have that kind of identification.

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