Prehistoric Cave Paintings: Our Big Adventure

Mulas y Machos

The road to the Great Murals of Baja’s Sierra de San Francisco turns east off Mexico Hwy 1 a bit south of Vizcaíno. It climbs quickly from the desert (near sea level) toward the highest peak in the sierra. At different elevations there are changing climate zones so that there are even boojum trees at one point. The last few kilometres are unpaved, and the road winds ever higher to a tiny village with nearby ranchos at an elevation of more than 3500 feet. This is where our adventure began.

John gets to know his mule

Our tour group met at 11 am on Monday, March 4 at the Hostal Buenaventura, made quick introductions, signed some paperwork, and drove a short distance to the Rancho Palo Rayo, where several mules, burros, and horses stood waiting to be loaded. Saddling South, our tour company, was led by Cesareo ‘Charo’ Castro. Accompanying our group of eight gringos were three vaqueros: Miguel, Francisco (‘Nacho’), and Chema. They wrangled the animals. Charo was cook and English-speaking guide. No one in our group of eight brave souls was younger than late 50s or early 60s. Some of us were nearing or above 70.

While the vaqueros saddled the mules and horses, all our gear and food was spread out on tarps. There were tents, pads, sleeping bags, camp chairs, cooking equipment, folding tables, food for twelve people for four days, and whatever clothing and other personal items we needed to take. All this stuff was piled high on six burros and cinched down.

Chris and Don leaving Palo Rayo

This was John’s second visit to the prehistoric cave paintings, my first. Neither of us had ever ridden mules—he had walked it before. He said it was only about three or so miles from our departure point to the camp at the bottom of the canyon. What he neglected to explain to me was that it was a descent of 1600 feet down the face of sheer, crumbling cliffs.

It started out reasonably enough, swinging one’s leg over a stiff saddle, finding the correct length for the stirrups, getting one’s thighs used to sitting in a wide straddle for several hours. I quickly discovered muscles I hadn’t used for decades. We swayed and ambled across a gently sloping mesa where goats browsed and vultures circled. 

The Descent

And then we came to the edge. A bottomless canyon loomed before us. There were places on the way down where the switchbacks were so short that I could look up or down and see other riders directly overhead or below me in a vertical stack. Mules have this terrifying way of coming to the edge of a precipice, their heads stuck out into mid-air, putting their front hooves together, and gracefully pirouetting 90 or 180 degrees. It’s like being in the front car of a rollercoaster where you seem to go out into space before making the turn. Only here it was hundreds of feet down (did I mention I have severe acrophobia?) We were “reassured” that mules, more than horses, have a deeply ingrained sense of self-preservation.

A view from mid-cliff to the bottom
of the arroyo

There were two places where the trail was so steep we had to dismount (so the mules had a lower centre of gravity), and scramble down on foot. These were blessed reprieves from the discomfort of the saddle, but it was also very difficult to make one’s stiff legs work properly.

Near the final descent along a fan of earth and rock that stretched from mid-cliff to canyon floor, one of our burros snagged a pack on a branch and pulled off its load. We had to stop and wait single file on a razor’s edge for it to be retied. Riding a mule steeply downhill is a physical challenge, especially for an older person. You have to lean back and push your stirrups forward. A big enough step down could send you over the animal’s head. By the time we got to our camping spot my back and legs were in agony. After four hours, we dismounted and tried to walk off the pain. I now know why John Wayne swaggered the way he did. It was time for ibuprofen and a glass of wine.

The agony of descent

The Camp

Our campground was a flat, fenced square about the size of half a football field. Its neatly raked dirt was tended by an adjacent ranchero. It had a few mesquite trees on the edges and a small washroom building with flush toilets and a shower. A nearby stream provided water for the pack animals and habitat for many birds. There was a large palapa-covered kitchen/dining area, but Charo set up his cook stove under a big tree. As soon as the horses and mules were unsaddled and the burros unloaded, they all exuberantly took dirt baths in the centre of the campground, rolling and scratching and kicking up a lot of dust. Then they were turned loose in the arroyo. The vaqueros belled or hobbled some of them and would round them up in the morning.

We were setting up our tents in one corner, when a second tour group came down the steep embankment. There was some excitement when one of their burros bolted and scattered its packs. They claimed an area more in the centre of the campground and also took over the dining/kitchen palapa. There was another round of mule dirt baths as dinner preparations got underway. Charo fed us excellent tamales as the sun set early behind the high canyon walls, and we sat in a circle talking and getting to know each other.

Lynn, Cindy and Nani

Besides John and me, there was: Cindy and Mike from Alberta (she a kinesiologist, and he a bear biologist for the park service); Lynn and Chris (a retired couple from California); and cousins Nani (retired nurse from San Diego) and Marina (a rancher near Bozeman, Montana). As we got to know each other, we learned we shared many interests and outlooks. Marina and Cindy were avid bird watchers, Chris and Lynn talked about their concern for the environment and their progressive pasts, and Nani (who was suffering from a cold, but muscled through) is a world traveller. Mike had led many excursions in the Canadian Rockies on horseback. Chris and John had the same model of camera. Marina took many photos of birds. We were a most compatible group. There would be more time to get acquainted. John and I were exhausted and turned in early as the others sat around the campfire.

Day Two: La Pintada y Las Flechas

Charo cooks breakfast

Tuesday morning John and I were up early with the vaqueros. The mules had wandered off farther than they anticipated. They were pleased and grateful to use our binoculars to spot them way up the trail and across the arroyo. The two vaqueros from the other group soon asked if they, too, could use our binocs. The cowboys had to hike quite a ways to round up all the animals before breakfast. Charo is a good cook—I know how hard it is to cook for twelve people with only camp equipment. He made scrambled eggs with nopalitos, fried potatoes, tortillas, and pico de gallo. One of our burros had turned up missing.

It’s a little easier to ride today and we are surprisingly not sore from yesterday, though John has a couple of bruises. Today’s plan is to view the largest mural at Cueva la Pintada, plus Las Flechas (the spears) and possibly Boca la Soledad if it’s not too late. Most of the two-mile mule ride is down the rocky Arroyo de San Pablo, though parts are up a steep cliff—at a particularly vertical section we had to dismount again. We descended and left the mules tied up, saddles removed, at the bottom of the arroyo, then scrambled up on all fours to Cueva la Pintada on the other side. It is about halfway up the cliff.

The first part of the Great Mural at La Pintada

The cave opening is over 500 feet long. A wooden walkway and railing with viewing platforms has been secured on the lower lip outside the cave. The paintings are magnificent! They cover the cave ceiling and extend high above the opening. Human figures are double or triple size, some all red or all black, some half and half. They all have their arms raised and palms out. 

The middle of Pintada shot from slightly below

Mysterious headdresses have one, two, or three points (feathers?). Many different animal depictions are obvious: deer, bighorn sheep, whale, antelope, jackrabbits, coyotes, birds; in red, black, or yellow. Others are more open to interpretation: turtle, ray, puma, bat, frog? Many appear to be first outlined in white, then coloured in. A “pregnant” woman is painted over a bulge in the rock; there’s a round spiral with four hand prints; red and black figures overlap, giving a sense of depth and passage of time.

Overlapping figures: humans, deer, puma

Detail of a deer head

Humans and bighorn sheep

One of a series of coyotes

A swimmer beside a spy-hopping whale?

A frog

The exact age of these cave paintings is still uncertain. Some dating techniques put them at 7,500+ years old; others less than 2,000. Several figures have been repainted over and over. We lingered here and talked with Charo and Chema about various interpretations. Almost nothing is known about the creators. Even the Cochimie Indians, before they were wiped out, told the Jesuit missionaries in the 17th century they didn’t know who painted them. Do the images tell hunting or war stories? Are they spiritual or shamanic? Do they commemorate ancestors or leaders? How were they painted so high on the rocks? We may never know.

Nacho drinks from a river pool

We scrambled back down a steeper path to the bottom of the arroyo and had lunch near a spot where water seeped from the rock, funneled into a pipe. It was surprising to see locals drinking it without filtration. Our vaqueros often drank directly from the pools in the arroyo (Charo boiled the water for us gringos). After a rest, we scrambled up the other side of the canyon to Cueva de las Flechas, which also has a wooden viewing platform though is much smaller than La Pintada. 

Charo, Chris, and Lynn scramble 

The paintings here are similar, but there are many spears, drawn in white, piercing animals and humans with what look like arrowheads. The scene seems to depict a great conflict. Small human figures are painted upside down above the oversized humans (I imagined people being thrown off the cliffs). Is there a tribal significance to the colours of human figures? Was this a dispute over hunting territories? Charo says everyone can make up their own story, but there is a real story, of course. We just don’t know it.

Rabbit

The late afternoon was hot as we walked back to where our mules were tied up. We had been in the sun for hours and most of us were exhausted from climbing, plus it was at least an hour ride back to camp. Charo said it was a 45 minute hike up and back to Boca la Soledad in the canyon adjoining this one. 

Birds and a spear

Miguel unsaddles a mule

Only Mike and Cindy elected to make the steep climb. Miguel went with them. The rest of us headed back after Nacho and Chema saddled our mules. We were surprised that Mike, Cindy, and Miguel got back to camp only a few minutes after us. Cindy reported that it was definitely a steep climb, but it took them only 20 minutes. The paintings at Soledad were some of the same, but others were more geometric or abstract with checkboard patterns. There was an octopus painting I’m sorry I missed. Charo made chicken mole, rice, and sautéed vegetables for dinner.

Day Three: Boca San Julio

Lynn and Cindy

Wednesday morning the vaqueros from both groups in camp came looking for our binoculars when John and I got up before just before dawn. We had a long chat with Charo as he made breakfast. He talked about the tour business, Loreto, his family, and his love of fishing. 

When the others got up, we had time for birding and a leisurely pancake breakfast as the mules were corralled and prepped. The missing burro was found. Some of the mules have names—Chris’s big black one is Diamonte. Mine is Primavera, though I just gently call her “Girl” and pat her neck when she makes it through a particularly tight spot. Females are “mulas,” males are “machos.” 

Today we would visit two cuevas about a kilometre beyond where we were yesterday—Boca San Julio and Cueva los Músicos—but the route was a ridge trail high up on the canyon wall. For me, this was the scariest ride of the trip. Once we left the river rocks of the arroyo, our track split off and climbed steeply. The trail was 12 inches wide right on the edge of the precipice. It followed the contours of the rock face, and in the creases eroded by run-off, threatened to slide away altogether. 

Good girl

All I could do was stay focused on my mule’s ears and avoid looking down into the chasm. Once we were a distance past Las Flechas and La Pintada (which we could see below us), we carefully dismounted on the side of the mule closest to the hill and found a safe place to stand. The mules were left in place, tied to cactuses, and we hiked down to the bottom. It was a steep trail, but much of it was in a deep crevice so there were handholds and you could skooch on your butt, being careful to avoid various thorns (we had surprisingly few impalings during the trip).

Dismounting on the cliff's edge

It was past noon and quite warm. Charo promised, after a “short” hike, we would drop our lunch bags and climb up to San Julio, then return, eat, and take a break. The arroyo had palm trees and languid green pools of water. There were bigger rocks and boulders to navigate, but a shorter cliff to scale. Despite water breaks, both John and I were feeling dehydrated.

San Julio is a smaller cave with no viewing platform. There are deer, rabbits, and coyotes depicted, and fewer humans. Some of the figures are only white outlines, unfinished. It was compelling, but felt a bit anticlimactic after the arduous ride and the glory of Pintada yesterday. Again, after lunch, it was only Mike and Cindy who had the energy to hike up to Cueva los Músicos. They went on ahead with one of the vaqueros, and rendezvoused with the rest of us at the spot where we had to climb up the cliff to the mules. They said they saw petroglyphs, too, and a live rattlesnake.

Top L-R: Chema, Cindy, Don. Middle: Nacho, Charo, Mike, Nani, Marina, Miguel, Lynn, and Chris. Front: John

The spot where we all met up was marked by a massive rock formation called Cacariso. It was here, on the flat slabs of stone in the riverbed that we took a group photo. We were almost out of water. I wasn’t looking forward to the harrowing, vertiginous ride back. From our conversation on the way back, we learned that Chema plays guitar and accordion in a band, and the ranchero who tends the camp often has cold beer for sale. 

We made plans, as we clip-clopped back along the knife-edge cliff, to have a party on our return. Cindy, who made a real effort during the whole trip to converse in Spanish, now entreated Chema to sing us some songs after dinner. It was dusky when we got back to camp. Chris sprang for a case of beer delivered in a wheelbarrow. Charo made a fine meal of machacas with tortillas, rajas con crema, and beans. 

Chema entertained us

Vaqueros from the other group
joined us around the campfire

It was our last night. We sat around the campfire with all the vaqueros, telling stories. Someone rounded up a guitar and Chema played some cowboy songs. I think we all had a tender spot in our hearts for these hard-working men. They each own their own mules, burros, and horses and get paid a fee per animal. They rotate job assignments during the tourist season from a larger group of local wranglers. They can run up and down the rocky cliffs as deftly as mountain goats and coax reluctant mulas or machos to pick up the pace. They are infinitely kind, careful, and patient with novice riders, and I believe they genuinely cherish the cultural heritage of this special place.

Woman figure at La Rata

Day Four: the Ride Back

Charo’s plan for the morning is to get up early and have coffee while the vaqueros round up the animals. As our riding mules are being saddled, we will break down the camp and pile all our gear on tarps, then have breakfast. Chema will ride with us to one last cave just off the trail going back. Charo, Nacho, and Miguel will load the burros and meet us at the junction. If all goes well, we should be back to Rancho Palo Rayo around noon.

Headed back

The last cave we visited was La Rata. Most of the human figures are women—they are painted with breasts under their armpits, still with arms raised and palms out. More than the others, this cave seems like a great place to hang out—maybe it was a women’s retreat. It had a spectacular view of Arroyo San Pablo. 

Mike found a flat piece of stone on which he drew a mula to imitate the style of the murals, in pigments from tan and red pebbles. We got back on our mules and caught up with the vaqueros and the burros. It took less than three hours to get back. It was easier on my back going uphill, but no less nerve-racking. The mules knew they were heading home. Primavera speed-walked.

Mula and me, exhausted.

We unpacked, tipped our guides, exchanged addresses, and said our goodbyes. The other gringos in our group all planned to have dinner in San Ignacio. John and I headed north to Guerro Negro. Mike (the experienced trail rider) said it was probably the most challenging ride he had ever been on. Everyone agreed it was a remarkable experience, the adventure of a lifetime.