If you want a climbing article, a pitch-by-pitch travelogue on this secluded place, this story ain't for you. I'd rather tell a saga of our encounter out there, with a saint of a man on this rugged section of Baja. This piece is a review of a fellow who jumped out of the chaparral and helped us survive. This tall tale is a tribute to our friend who taught us the meaning of a simple Spanish word that few north of the border really appreciate or understand: simpático. This recounting tries to unpack our amigos way of saying, we human beings no matter our creed or breed or what we read are "Una fatsa, una ratsa" — one face one race, the human race.

In our haste to get to the base of a climb, it is not unheard of for us to get disoriented for a while. To be so totally FUBARed looking for this Trono Blanco granite dome nearly the size of Middle Cathedral Rock in Yosemite, where we needed a Mexican guía — guide — to get us there, well, this is how I recall the experience.

Mi amigos, ¿qué pasa? ¡Dónde vas! ¿Chingada? He came out of the chaparral like a jaguar, stealth and pronto, a middle age cat, who, if he wanted to, could of captured all three of us at once and hauled our asses into the bush for a meal. A day time premonition who materialized about where the "fork in the dirt road" was supposed to be.

He was maybe my middle age, and guapo or good looking, my build, about 5 foot 7, all alone, graying beard, likewise the color of his shoulder length hair. His skin was the hue and texture of my brown leather boots — he didn't need chaps to walk through the cactus and thorns. Eyes were sad, I think they had seen a lot of misery, and much joy. Expression somewhat like Carlos Santana viewed in a DVD concert. Voice akin to a 40 year old fine mariachi guitar well played. Sombrero a yucca woven model well used. He was wearing what appeared like an old pair of white Gramicci climbing pants, huaraches, and a Patagonia Hawaiian shirt, logo and all. Nice but ragged attire for this first weekend in November expedition into the Sierra Juarez region of Baja Mexico. Elevation approximately 6,000 feet in a bizarre mix of scattered ponderosa and pinyon pine, palm, yucca, agave, succulents, cactus and chaparral species of very pointed, rough and waxy leaves.

Our ghost looked vaguely familiar. In my halting pocho Spanish I asked, Te conozco? "Do I know you?" He looked at me for a while and smirked, Padria sir, could be. He said something about spending time in California, Estados Unidos, and Aztlán. On our truck stereo the Grateful Dead were jamming away, ". . . The wheel is turning and you can't slow down."

We were three college grads, all smart enough to follow topos up big walls in Yosemite, take verbal beta from friends on how to get somewhere, and two of us where geography majors with courses in cartography under our climbing harnesses. We had no GPS or cell phones, just us and we expect "us" to get us out of trouble if we got in such an ordeal. The Three Musketeers, one for all and all for one. Dan and I had worked for Outward Bound. Joe and a pal had ridden their two wheeled aluminum mules all the way down Baja to Cabo San Lucas. A trio of boy scouts prepared for anything. I had once been given directions in San Diego on how to hook up with a dude in Tijuana way off the beaten path and down or up many alleys. Gail and I found him, no problem. I had volunteered on the Arizona zona seca frontera with a group dedicated to providing H2O tanks for the northbound desert travelers. We were all practiced south of the border.

We had been dead set on getting to this big wall, machismo maxamundo! We knew we had it in us to find a way through. On this dusty dirt road looking for the White Throne we tres amigos were in mucho problema(!), so turned around we couldn't see right from wrong, and our new friend — our milagro or miracle — seemed genuinely interested in helping us out of our fix.

We were standing around our beat up 4X4 pickup by now beginning to talk with . . . ¿Quién eres? Who are you? "Amigos, looking for Trono Blanco?" Yes! Si! ¿Sabes, dónde estamos? You know where we are?