November 15, 2023

Oct 21 - Oct 27 : San Felipe, San Ignacio, Mulegé, Bahía de Concepción, Loreto (waiting for a green light)

November 15, 2023/ Christian Tuttle

SAN FELIPE (AKA THE SURFACE OF THE SUN)

On the last trip through Mexico we spent a few nights camped in the company of Eric and Brittany (and Caspian) of Hourless Life while we were in Isla Aguada, Campeche. We really appreciated their company, and through their travels they have cultivated both wisdom and knowledge, some of which they shared with us. Some lessons were direct and illuminative. For instance, if you designate one side of your rig as dirty and one as clean you can develop a flow of gear, which was a way of teaching us that organization is important. Some lessons were unspoken or implied. For instance, Eric’s reaction of laughter when we explained to him that we packed a stove that we couldn’t get fuel for, meaning we essentially had no way to cook or boil water, was a way of teaching us that we should have packed a proper kitchen. Some lessons were incredibly basic and yet so valuable, like checking weather every morning. Eric was on top of his weather forecasts, and his family’s route and even their angle of parking each night was dictated by staying in pockets of comfortable temperatures or which way the wind was going to be blowing. I reflected on this lesson that had obviously gone unlearnt as I drove my family out of the comfortable 70F temps of the Pacific coast and directly into 109F, surface-of-the-sun heat that was the Mexico 3 highway from Ensenada to San Felipe in mid October.

We blew past some of our prior stops, including Mike’s Sky Rancho, just trying our hardest to make it to San Felipe, where we were hoping it would cool off. We were incorrect, and the late afternoon sun roasted the van as we looked for a cheap place to stay. San Felipe is the northern end of the Sea of Cortez, and what should have been a brackish ecosystem where the Colorado river delta meets the sea was instead a barren field of dirty, dusty salt. The camps on the northern end of San Felipe didn’t appeal to us, as they were expensive and smelled like a dying ocean, so we headed south and found a small parking lot advertising camping, beach access, and showers. We tucked into the shade of a concrete brick wall, and melted out of the van and into the sea. Gracie was too hot to cause trouble, and so were the property’s dogs. We eventually learned that the “campground” was actually just the driveway of the owner’s in-laws, and while we felt safe, we also felt very on display, but we had paid the nice man nearly $30USD, so we weren’t going anywhere.

The next day we continued our attempt to escape the sun, a mostly impossible task in central Baja as there are beautiful mountains and beautiful cacti but not a lot of shade. We drove through Santa Rosalia almost by reflex - we had no desire to stop, but we couldn’t just drive past a place where we had made a memory and not look. The weather forecasted for the pacific side of the peninsula was much better than the east side, and the road was headed for Guerrero Negro, so we decided to make a pit stop there for some mariscos (seafood), in this case some ceviche tostadas and a pulpo cocktail. In the shade we gathered our wits, and decided to head to a favorite freshwater oasis, San Ignacio, for what would hopefully be a few days of comfortable weather and easy camping.

San Ignacio didn’t disappoint. We stopped first at the campground at the lagoon that we had visited six years prior. Some of our favorite photos of all time were taken there, with Chelsea’s late cat (turned poltergeist that has partially taken residence in Gracie because Gracie is somehow part cat) Loulou. We took some more great photos, continuing the trend because it’s easy to continue that trend at that campsite. We swam in a lagoon that was less clear than I remembered, made some delicious breakfast with some of Ricky’s thick cut, homemade peppered bacon and our Idaho neighbor’s homemade peach jam, and drove into town for snacks and WiFi at a cafe. We also found a cool little ice cream shop that had obviously been found many times before as evidenced by the volume of traveler and race team stickers on the outside. If you get a chance, visit Edson’s in the main square, they’ve got heaps of character and much more than just ice cream. The lagoon in San Ignacio is surrounded by date palms, so I recommend getting date anything while you are there.

We ended up switching campgrounds to a spot much closer to town that had ripping fast (Starlink) internet and really nice bathrooms. Everyone was happy: there was a giant lawn perfect for long disc throws for Gracie, shade of us all, room to do some yoga workouts, and a slight breeze in the shade to cool us all down. The only downside was that I left another one of Gracie’s discs at the original lagoon campground, and I had to run (yes run, it was an emergency) a mile in the heat of the day to rescue my dog’s best friend. It was worth it.

Gracie getting as close to the A/C as she could. Also, notice Chelsea’s swollen ankles, a byproduct of the steroids she’d been on for her back paired with sleeping in the passenger seat.

Dogs that were too hot to make trouble, and me checking the trans fluid level because Walter had just ahd a weird “hiccup” - more on that later.

ShaDE IN AN OVERPRICED “CAMPSOT” IN SAN FELIPE.

MAKING THE BEST OF IT WITH FRESH GUACAMOLE.

SAN IGNACIO

THE DRIVE TO BAJA SUR - SO HOT, BUT SO BEAUTIFUL.

AT THE STATE LINE, BUT THE ROAD CONTINUES.

WE HAD FOUND THE LAGOON CAMP SPOT, BUT IT WAS GATED. WHEN I FOUND A LOCAL TO ASK IF THE OWNER WAS AROUND, HE BROKE THE CHAIN FOR US, TOOK SOME MONEY, AND WALKED AWAY.

BACK AT SAN IGNACIO - NOTICE THE STUFFED GIRAfFE on the deck IN THE BOTTOM LEFT CORNER, GRACIE WAS *NOT* A FAN,

CHELSEA IS A GREAT PHOTOGRAPHER BUT I THINK IT’S EASIER WHEN THE WOrLD AND THE SKY PLAY NICE. The Lagoon of SAN IGNACIO IS AN INCREDIBLY PHOTOGENIC CAMP SPOT.

COFFEE, COOKIES, AND FEELING LIKE WE’RE TRAVELING.

EGGS, HOMEMADE THICK CUT PEPPERED BACON, AND TOAST WITH HOMEMADE PEACH JAM FROM our neighbor in DONNELLY, IDAHO.

GETTING SOME WIFI IN DOWNTOWN SAN IGNACIO.

ON A DINNER DATE IN THE SQUARE OF SAN IGNACIO.

GRACIE ACCOMPANIED US ON OUR DINNER DATE.

The community of San Ignacio is making efforts to recognize its traditional, pre-mission name of Kadakaaman.

Shade, date palms, hot showers, and ripping fast WiFi.

Hot dogs for dinner! Street food = best food.

After San Ignacio it was on to Mulegé, another stop on the parade down memory lane. We stayed a night at what once was a campground full of travelers, and now seemed to be a retirement home for old white expats and snowbirds. When we had last been to the Huerto Don Chano RV park it was a lot more traveller and a lot less full-timer. When we got there this time most of the camp spots were obviously rented long-term, with uninhabited 5th wheels sitting shuttered, and Boston Whalers sitting trailered and ready to help over-fish the Sea of Cortez when the season got under way. Some spots had been leased and turned into casitas or full blown houses, and a handful of the established campers had chainlink fences securing their RVs, boats, and OHVs. Five o’clock came and went and no one sounded a conch to start a game of roving bocce. There were no overlanders from Europe taking refuge from their self-imposed pilgrimage, no Australians in a broken down school bus drinking away their problems. It was more evidence of change and change is neither good nor bad.

Chelsea and I went for walk down the tidal river outside the camp and watched pelicans hunt in the fading light, a sight that is quickly becoming a favorite of mine. They attack the water with such gusto and confidence, and they are not small birds. Their splashes are significant.

From Mulegé we moved on to Bahia de Concepción, and spent one terrible night camped in a beautiful place. The day had started out pretty well - we found the campground we wanted, it wasn’t overran with sprinters (yet), and we got there in the heat of the day, but were able to take refuge under our canopy and take swims in the ocean. Everything was going great…we even reconnected with some old acquaintances from the first trip, until I made the fateful decision to buy some lukewarm pizza out of the back of a minivan.

A pizzeria and bakery in town had loaded up some pizzas and drove down to the beaches to sell dinner as the sun set over the peninsula. I splurged on the last pie they had available, a loaded pepperoni and cheese, complete with a spicy mayonnaise. I immediately felt guilty, like I had taken the last opportunity to have this hot dinner, so I went around and offered some to our old artist acquaintances camped down the beach in their pristine golden 70’s Chevy van, and to the full-timers in the school bus next to us. Chelsea and I had a half pizza to satisfy us and some for left overs, and everyone was happy, until about 10pm, when Chelsea reported that nausea had set in. After a half hour of deliberating in the dark, the answer was clear: she was in for a fun night food poisoning, with little more than an overused pit toilet full of spiders, cockroaches and flies and a nearby steel trash barrel for her comfort. At least the moon was nearly full and there were dolphins playing in the bay for her to watch?

Pilfering the book swap at the campground. A lot of the books had water damage from the recent hurricane.

Seagulls, which aren’t as cool as pelicans in Mulegé. (And the splash from the pelicans in the background.)

BAHÍA DE CONCEPCIÓN

Back at the Bahia de Concepción, and walter is trying to fit in with the crowd.

Just a little seashore walk to strech out our backs and legs.

The Bahia de Concepción is part of the amazing midcoast of Baja’s sea of COrtez side.

The minivan pizza, bought from one minivan and ate at another.

The possible culprit to all of CHelsea’s woes.

Mulegé and the Bahia de Concepción were one-night stays, with Chelsea insisting on running water and a real toilet after her terrible night of food poisoning. We moved on to Loreto, making time down the peninsula on our way to La Paz to see some friends and catch the ferry. We had really liked Loreto the last time we were here, so we sought out our favorite RV park and stayed in the town. We had planned to only stay one night, until Walter the Delica developed a troubling transmission problem the next morning. He had had a couple of shifting “hiccups” here and there, low rpms, low speed, low throttle stuff. The problem that was rearing its ugly head was the same issue that we had at Gold Lake at the start of the trip, but now it wasn’t solving itself as readily as before. We doubled back to the RV park, paid for another night, and broke out the tools. Not really having any idea what I was doing, I put in a frantic call to Nomadic Van, the dealer and shop that had sold us the van. They offer a phone-a-mechanic product that lets you chat with their Delica specialist Rondo for a fee, and he pointed me in the right direction (or in a right direction). knowing that the culprit could be a throttle kick-down cable, I scoured the internet for assistance from the forums, and eventually adjusted what might be a worn out cable back into service. I am not entirely sure if solved the problem or just bought myself more time, but I certainly wouldn’t have known where to start without Rondo.

We were happy to stay in Loreto for another night, the town was preparing for Día de Los Muertos, the traditional day of the dead festivities that are more often being coupled with halloween-style parties to make for a big few days of revelry. It was a known comfort, and the town has great food and cool art and a charming square. We had been seeing some grass roots reporting out of La Paz showing some significant damage from Hurricane Norma, with videos of yachts destroyed in the harbor and coastal highways washed out or covered with sand/mud. The local authorities had even put out a message asking tourists to stay away for a few days, and the ferries that would take us to the mainland had been put on hold, anchoring out at sea to wait for the terminals to be cleared of debris. There hadn’t been an official "green light” given yet, but as the days wore on we were getting further from initial impact of the storm, and we were hoping time would heal any wounds pretty quickly. Sometimes you control the tempo of the trip, sometimes the tempo of the trip controls you, but no matter what, nothing gold can stay.

We’d been tasked by our friend Ashley in San Diego to find some pom-poms for her. This photo was our proof that we’d been successful.

Look at how happy I am removing van parts.

frantically googling answers on the Delica forums.

Best friends in Loreto. Not a care in the world as long as we have our disc and some scoops of food at the end of the day.

Getting an overpriced glass of wine at a touristy restaurant downtown with an underpriced serenade from some local musicians. Their performance was incredible. Truly.

Ending our night at a phenomenal hole-in-the-wall non-tourist-filled taco joint, where we discovered their specialty “Taco Yoshi”, which was a taco made from a “shell” of melted/grilled cheese.

October 30, 2023

Oct 14 - Oct 15 : The Three-Hour Tour: Crisscrossing the Border

October 30, 2023/ Christian Tuttle

We’ve honestly never felt more prepared for a trip than we have on this one. We spent months getting the van fitted out comfortably, we spent weeks tidying up the house and getting the property presentable for a renter, and we spent all yesterday preparing to cross the Mexican border. Repairs were made, laundry was washed, paper work printed and copied, insurance purchased and issued. We had learned from the past two grand adventures that you need to have your ducks in a row before you leave the US, so we did just that. We remembered to empty our spare fuel cans into the gas tank, as Mexico doesn’t want you traveling across the border with excess foreign fuel. We built a handy pouch of copied documents and hid the originals deep in bowels of Walter, the Delica L400, in case a checkpoint needed to see our papers. We built false wallets including voided IDs and low-balance credit cards, in case we were pickpocketed. The one thing we didn’t do, or at least didn’t do well enough, was look where we going.

The morning of October 14th, 2023, was gorgeous. Our “camp spot” in San Diego was socked in with fog that burnt away early, giving way to a 9:30 AM solar eclipse that dappled our friends’ driveway with a million little crescent suns. We were up earlier than that though, having what we thought was one last family breakfast of eggs and homemade bacon, and finishing our packing. After big goodbyes to our hosts and the kids, we loaded up into the van and nervously laughed all the way to the border. Surface crossings are the best, at least for a New Englander turned Idahoan like myself - its just not a thing that we did or do. As a child, international crossings were done by plane, and there were few dramas past filling out the immigration cards when we traveled like that, but surface crossings are a different animal. They are partially chaotic, partially organized in a system that a newcomer doesn’t understand. They fill me with nervousness and glee - honestly, it feels a lot like dropping into a big rapid, especially a big rapid on a pool-drop river. Slow calmness and apprehension, followed by hasty action and chaos in an alien space, then back to calmness, reflection, and sometimes wound-licking, and most times thankful prayer.

We were giddy on the drive, going over our checklists, our plans for after the crossing, the location of the Banjercito for paying the TIP (Temporary Import Permit) fee, our possible camp spots, our back up camp spots, even our likely menu for that night’s dinner. The fifteen or so miles melted away instantly, and with almost no warning we were passing big signs painted on the free way reading “LAST US EXIT” in one lane and “MEXICO” in another. Moments later, we pointed out the near hypocrisy of those words as we passed another sign offering a U-turn to the USA through the median - the last chance was really a second-to-last chance. We drove onward, toward a new border crossing, triumphant in our nearly 1500 mile journey to the border.

We made it through the red-light-green-light of the actual border, and then were instantly flagged into secondary. The customs official was incredibly nice, genuinely happy to see us there, and asked to have me open the rear hatch and the slider. I told him we had a dog and he said it was ok, and then upon opening the hatch he honestly cooed at Gracie, as if he wouldn’t mind playing fetch with her, but thought that the Mexican Marine standing at his station might think otherwise. He asked us where we were going, we said “Veracruz” and his face lit up, understanding the distance of the drive ahead of us, and delighted that we were going to go and see and enjoy his beautiful country. We asked him for directions to the Banjercito to get our TIP and FFM tourist cards, showing him the map we had, and he confirmed that we were headed to the correct location, only two right turns away, less than a city block. He wished us well, and we sped off, straight past the immigration and declaration lanes, and out into the busy streets of east Tijuana.

Upon arriving at the Banjercito, a little frazzled from the workup to the border and the quarter mile drive from the inspection lane to the parking lot, we got our affairs in order and came up with a plan - I would take my passport and the vehicle title into the office, get my FFM tourist card and the TIP for Walter, while Chelsea would wait with the dog. Then Chelsea would head in, get her FFM and we would drive off into the sunset to camp in the Valle de Guadalupe. Everything went swimmingly - the guard at the door was very nice, and a sweet bilingual woman waiting for her husband to exit the office translated for me. She explained to the guard what I needed, I was let into the otherwise empty office, and the gentleman behind the desk was nearly fluent in English. He looked over my registration and title, said everything was good, and then asked for my FFM card. I informed him that I would need one, and then my wife would come in for one. He informed me that I could not get an FFM at this office, and the only place to get a tourist card was back in the border, before we entered Mexico. We needed to be processed in upon entry, at the place of entry, at the immigration and declaration lane that we had just whizzed past. Cool.

Feeling a little panic welling up inside me, and making the moderately staid and sexist joke of “Boy, is my wife going to be mad at me!”, I asked him if I could drive back to the immigration office. His face betrayed his emotion, and although his words were “I don’t think so,” his face said “Absolutely not.” I asked if I could walk back to the immigration office, and he shrugged, giving me an honest “Maybe.” That was all I needed. After putting our heads together, Chelsea and I decided to park around the corner in a paid lot, and I would take the papers for myself and the van, and try to make it back into the immigration office. If I was successful, I would tell the officers to expect my wife, and then swap spots with Chelsea. We just didn’t want to leave the van and the dog alone, it didn’t seem prudent, and Chelsea didn’t need any more exploratory walking, her injured back was happy enough to stay seated in Walter’s plush seats.

I set out on foot, very concerned that I was not going to be able to find a route back through the one-way turnstiles and into the border zone, and more concerned that if I did find a route, Chelsea would have to walk it alone and with her back sending pins and needles and pain down her right leg, and even more concerned that if I did make it, and Chelsea made it, that the immigration officers would want to inspect our 26 year-old, right-hand-drive, kinda-converted-but-sir-I-swear-it’s-a-car-and-not-an-RV minivan parked outside the border area in a paid lot. I felt like I had at least three hoops to jump through, and that was maybe two hoops too many, and maybe I was getting too old to be a traveler.

I approached the turnstiles at the exit of the Border area, their spinning bars denoting where the stark white federal zone abuts the colorful world of Mexico, where the formal bleeds away into the practical. Unfortunately, I was like a fish swimming upstream, and I was going to have to try to make the formal world work for me. In my best broken Spanish I asked for the immigration office, and then explained I needed an FFM and a TIP. The guard was confused, but understood I wanted to go back to the immigration offices. He denied me, I pled my case, he made a radio call to a superior that was seated 20 feet away, and then we walked those 20 feet, to talk to the older, more official, and less pleased supervisor. The guard pled my case, we were both met with a “No,” to which I asked again for a favor, and I was met with a larger, more succinct “NO.”

The guard took pity on me, he could tell I was a little lost, which coincidentally was a product of getting a little lost in the first place. He walked me over to the concrete barrier that separated the pedestrian outlet from the auto lanes, and the fence beyond those lanes that separated the trickle of Mexican traffic from the torrent of American-bound vehicles, and he gestured around the fences, and back northward toward the immigration office. I didn’t really understand what he was saying, but I thought he might mean I could just hop the barrier and walk back up the road to the immigration office. The rule follower in me balked at the idea, the wannabe adventurer was considering it, but in the back of my mind I couldn’t escape the idea of Chelsea having to do whatever it was I did; if I got my FFM and TIP, she would need her FFM, and I didn’t want her hopping a jersey barrier and walking against the flow of traffic, not with her back the way it was.

I silently considered what I thought the guard was recommending, and then I walked over to a taxi stand where a few drivers were resting in the afternoon shade, waiting for fares. After offering my usual “Sorry my Spanish is so bad” introduction, I explained my situation and what I thought the guard was telling me to do, and the drivers cleared up all my confusion: I certainly could not hop the barrier and walk back up the one-way traffic to the immigration office. The guard was telling me to get in the pedestrian border line for the US, walk through the border, and then re-enter Mexico, and that the vehicle crossing back into the US would take maybe four hours, but that I should just leave my van here and do it on foot…it would take maybe an hour.

I contemplated this as I walked back to Chelsea, the van and the dog. We could just walk up and around, through the border and back through the border. It was barely past noon, maybe we could be back under way by 2PM and headed to the warm embrace of the Valle de Guadalupe by late afternoon. But I didn’t want to leave Walter unattended, even in a paid parking lot, it just didn’t fit with how Chelsea and I manage our risks. We would have to leave most of our belongings unattended, not to mention our mobile home, our shelter on the road, and that was a die we didn’t want to cast.

After a severe bout of mental self-flagellation, Chelsea and I decided there was really only one thing to do: get back into the border line to cross into the states, with the entire family intact. The alternative plans all had their flaws, some real and some likely perceived. Walking across the border would have been difficult on Chelsea and the dog, and would have left the van in limbo. Seeking out a more accessible immigration office would have been possible, but we had few details on how to go about doing it. Camping without papers in the Valle de Guadalupe would have been completely legal, but it would have kicked the can down the road for another day and that didn’t seem worth it. Defeated and deflated, we drove around the surface streets of east Tijuana, looking for the tail end of the snake of cars and trucks slowly inching towards the US.

We had initially crossed the border at 11AM, and we were back in the border line by noon, the frantic running around having only taken an hour. The drivers at the taxi stand had guessed that the current wait was four hours, but the actual distance we had to cover was pretty short, and the automotive snake was inching forward, slowly but surely. We cycled the A/C on and off, not wanting to overwork or overheat any one system on the Delica as we crept by dozens of carts selling everything from pastries to coconuts to 24 inch tall plaster models of such famous figures as Popocatépetl, Jesus Christ, and the Predator. Everything you could ever want can be found in the border line.

During the wait, Chelsea and I were contemplating what the move would be after we had returned to the US side. We did some Googling and found the most direct route back to the southbound lanes, and then did some math and tried to establish a pumpkin hour for this little misadventure. It was tough telling not knowing how long a successful trip through immigration could last - if we crossed at 2:30PM, and rendered Mexico by 3:00PM, and were out of immigration by 4:00PM, could we make it to the Valle de Guadeloupe by sundown at 6:00PM? We could if it all went well, but we wouldn’t be leaving ourselves any time for hiccups, breakdowns, malfunctions or failures. On one hand, we really wanted to be in Mexico, we really wanted to start the trip, but on the other hand we had learned so many times not to push the envelope with time and daylight, because that kind of decision making only leads to haste and danger. Driving with fading daylight makes you want to get to your destination sooner, and next thing you know you are speeding just a little in the twilight and then BAM, you hit an unmarked tope (Mexico’s infamous and unforgiving speed bumps) and you destroy your front suspension or pop a tire. Bad decisions tend to cascade, and we had finally reached a point in our lives where we were strong enough to put aside our immediate desires in favor of safety now and success tomorrow.

We made it to the US border at exactly 2:00PM. We know this because we got to watch a ten minute changing-of-the-guard that halted all forward progress and felt like it took forever. The officer that processed us back into the US looked at us quizzically, not fully understanding why we only spent three hours in Mexico, and two of those three in the border line, but she didn’t want any more details and waved us through. It was still early, the border behind us was still tugging at our shirttails, begging us to come play, but we had made our decision, and secured one last night of camping in our friend’s driveway, so we drove back to the known, leaving the unknown for tomorrow.

In the end, we were happy with our choices, and it felt like opening a new chapter in our book of adventures, not only because we had dipped our toes into the pool of the next leg of the trip, not only because one little misadventure had proven to us that the drive to the border was worth it, but because we had made choices as a team that we probably wouldn’t have made in the past. We had said no to the impulse to push the limit, we had said no to the sprint and the unsafe driving, we delayed gratification in favor of the possibility of a longer, better, slower trip. We were getting older, and a younger us might have done something different, and gotten a very different outcome.

It was the last exit, but not the last chance to turn around. If you haven’t done a surface crossing before, beware: if you make it to the border, they will make you cross.

The Banjercito…where we were first informed of our missed turn.

Panic fading to regret fading to complacemt discomfort as I realized that we had missed our chance to get our papers and penance would be paid for in plummeting MPGs and skyrocketing temps.

We spied a “baja Rally” sticker, the Motorcycle race created and produced by our Ensenadan friend Mauricio, mocking us on the signage leading us back to the US border.

Everything you could ever want can be found in a border line.

Mexico bound on the left, US bound on the right.

If you’re in the border line, you have to get churros. It’s a rule.

We had one last “one last” family dinner with our friends, and the next morning we had one last “one last” family breakfast, and then another final big send-off. Our second attempt at crossing was remarkably smooth - there wasn’t a single other vehicle at immigration when we arrived, and we were processed quickly and got our FFM cards without issue. Getting our TIP was easy until the officer had to enter our VIN into the computer, as our van’s Japanese heritage means its serial number is only eleven digits instead of the standard seventeen. It took a few phone calls, but she eventually sorted it out and we were on our way, finally leaving the border in our rear view mirror, its stark white walls fading into the background, a white speck in the Mexican mass of technicolor excellence.

We made a hard left out of East Tijuana and followed the highway just south of the border wall towards Tecate, veering off when we saw signs for the Valle de Guadalupe. Finally, we were making miles and making time, diving deep enough into Baja to feel committed, out of the range of the tractor beam to the US border. An hour passed by and we got peckish, so we stopped for instant coffee and homemade chilaquiles, a second breakfast at little truck stop restaurant. We continued on into the early afternoon, into the Valle, sliding in to what felt like home base, even though we knew we were barely out of the dugout, not even at bat yet on this trip, We had been to the Valle six years earlier, and it looked exactly as expected on our return: moderately more developed, but still dusty and beautiful and full of vineyards. We stopped for a wine tasting at one of the vineyards, because when in Rome, you should drink wine. Then we made it to Bellinghausen Brewery, a little craft cerveceria, our target for the night. We found what we were looking for, a free parking spot with a bathroom and a locked gate. We were home on the road again.

The next attempt…we were the only vehicle processing through Immigration.

Our fist-bump of celebration after we did all the right things the second time around.

Following the border wall on the southern side. (That large red-iron looking thing is the border wall)

Second breakfast, first meal in Mexico, homemade chilaquiles and instant coffee served under arctic air conditioning.

Touring the vineyards of the Valle de Guadeloupe.

Home for night one at Bellinghuasen Brewery.

May 08, 2017

Mexico, Part 18: Projects in Ensenada

May 08, 2017/ Christian Tuttle

We have to apologize for not having a post last Monday. In our mad dash back to Colorado, we were off the grid and pounding pavement for several days. Time for some catch up!

Chelsea was ordered to stay in bed for the first two weeks of her recovery, and only partook in the most limited amount of movement. I, on the other hand, was bored and restless. Luckily, Mauricio, our host, let me help him remodel his new rental property. The house, which was situated next to his existing rental, would eventually be used as an AirBnB product, but first needed a new kitchen, some furniture, and a lot of paint. Lucky for us, they agreed to let Chels recover in the back room while the remodeling happened. The location was amazing, and with some hard work, the house would soon be able to host couples and families, and start generating income for Mauricio and Abby.

We had done some furniture shopping before Chelsea's surgery so there's a few photos of us walking around Los Globos, an enormous flea market that stretches over city blocks. Chels and I are huge fans of second hand stores here in the US, so visiting Los Globos was a real treat. In addition to the great shopping, we had a chance to sample many local dishes, including shaved ice, fried pork rinds (chicharones), tacos, and some sort of fermented corn sugar beverage.

The walkway to Mauricio's second AirBnB rental after we got it all cleaned up.

Much of the kitchen renovation happened on that shaded patio. What a view!

The old kitchen, coming apart. SOme other travelers had already painted the walls.

Demo complete and a new kitchen counter being built.

All finished! Chels' photography really makes it shine.

The living room, complete with a couch from Los Globos.

Starting the shopping excursion with some sort of fermented corn sugar beverage.

City blocks upon city blocks of this: the best used good available.

So many things we wanted. We need to move into a home with a garage next.

Loulou couldn't come with us to Los Globos, so she stayed at home...

In addition to helping Mauricio and Abby with their mini renovation, and helping Pablo and Anna with their Airstream restoration, Chelsea and I had a little wish-list of projects for Little Foot. First things first, we wanted a roof rack over the cab, partially to add storage space and take weight off the top of the roof, and partially to add security. Without a roof rack, anyone could take a knife to the cab's soft top and gain entry. While a burglary would be heartbreaking, the cost of replacing the soft top is crazy! $2000 for a new one! So, to dissuade the unjust, we added a roof rack.

Mauricio and Pablo got in contact with a Lupe and Mario, two very talented fabricators who used to work with Baja Rack, a performance roof rack company that outfits a lot of adventure ready vehicles. Lupe took one look at the project, deemed it to be very simple, and told me to meet him the next Monday to fit the rack to the truck. Awesome!

Lupe and Mario getting after it in the workshop.

Me, wishing I could help. Or weld. Or be cool like Lupe.

More test fitting. (We used the old machine gun foundation on top of the cab to bolt the rack to for support. It worked really well.

Finished welding, and ready for powdercoat.

Installing Little Foot's new hat. It attaches in three places…on the machine gun mount, and on the hood where there were already bolts for the windshield to fold down.

In addition to the roof rack, Lupe was willing to fabricate a larger fuel tank for us. The original held roughly 19 gallons, which just wasn't enough. After 5 days of work, Lupe, Mario, and myself and created a tank that would hold over 32 gallons, and greatly increase Little Foot's range. I slept on a street corner (in Little Foot!) for 3 nights, abandoning Chelsea at Mauricio's, just to get the project finished. It was a big undertaking, but I made great friends. By the end of the project, Lupe's family was feeding me, and I was well acquainted with most of the drug addicts in the area, all of whom were very nice to me, and most of which returned my salutations of "God bless you," something that doesn't happen often in the states.

I can't thank Lupe and Mario enough. They worked crazy hard, and they are very talented, and we made a beautiful tank. I don't know when I will see them again, but I hope it is soon, because they're my friends now. God bless you guys!

Trying my hand (and my mouth) at siphoning.

Looking good in steel. Ready for paint..

And mounted. (We chose white because fuel doesn't like being hot, so black was out of the question…and, as you can see, our paint job isn't quite holding up that well, so we might try to repaint LF White in the future.

Loulou freaking out because we locked her in Chels bedroom. She just couldn't be pleased. First she missed Chels and wanted to hang out, but then when the door was shut she could only focus on trying to escape.

April 24, 2017

Mexico, Part 17: Back surgery in Ensenada

April 24, 2017/ Chelsea Tuttle

Happily back in Ensenada, we looked forward to hitting the ground running with some projects. We were wanting to build a roof rack over the cab and have a new gas tank fabricated, but we were also eager to help our friends Mauricio, Abigail, Pablo and Anna with some projects of their own. Since we'd been gone, Mauricio and Abby had secured the rental house next door to their own and were feverishly rehabbing it to turn it into a rockin' Airbnb rental. Alongside that, they'd also purchased an old Airstream with P&A and were ALSO rehabbing that to turn it into an Airbnb! Lots of projects to be and worked on!

Shortly after we'd arrived, the recurring issue of my back pain came up. We'd decided that receiving an MRI to diagnose the cause was my best bet to start working towards a solution. Knowing it'd be a while before we returned to the stability of a job and able to buy health insurance, I wanted to try to get an MRI while still in Mexico, where we were certain it'd be much more affordable. As luck would have it, Mauricio knew a wonderful neurosurgeon in town and was willing to set up an appointment for me to get a referral for an MRI.

From here on out, I'm going to do this post in a timeline form. Our experience with me having surgery in Mexico was really wonderful and eye-opening…from the quickness of the process to the cost of care, we were just blown away. Not only would we not have been able to afford any of this in the US, it would probably have taken months of appointments, referrals and the like to achieve the same outcome.

Monday, March 13th

Mauricio calls Dr. Fong to see if he can set up an appointment for me. The appointment was scheduled for the very next day.

Tuesday, March 14th

I have my first appointment with Dr. Fong. He gives me a small examination and tests my movement after having me describe my symptoms. Appointment ends with him writing me a referral for an MRI and some X-rays. I ask if I need to set up an appointment to get them, he says, "No, just show up in the morning and they'll set something up."

Total cost for appt: $35 USD

Wednesday, March 15th

I show up to Burboa Radiológos with my referral and no appointment. After listening to me stumble through a poorly spoken Spanish explanation that I didn't have an appointment, they tell me that they're so sorry, they can't fit me in until 10:30am (it was 9:45am at the time). I paid my bill up front, and after a short and pleasant wait, I was brought in for my MRI promptly at 10:30am. Following the MRI, I had a set of three X-rays taken and was then told I could wait for my films out front (which only took an additional 15 minutes after I'd finished being scanned).

Total cost for MRI/XRAY: $238 USD

Friday, March 17th

Another appointment with Dr. Fong for a follow-up to have him read the films and diagnose. Burboa had sent him the scans online, so he'd been able to review them before our meeting. His first comment when I walk in the door is, "I don't know how you're still walking!" He identified two herniated discs…one between L4/L5 and another, the culprit behind my pain, between L5/S1. He recommends surgery (a microdisectomy with nucleotomy in L5/S1). We decide to think on it, and he gives me his cell phone number to call or text him when we've made a decision. He also says I will have to get labs and blood work done beforehand, but that can be done without an appointment at his clinic.

Total cost for appt: $35 USD

You can see where the disc is severely herniated in the lowest disc above my tailbones. (Between L5/S1 for those that know…) That large black protrusion should not be there. I also have a partially herniated disc above it in the L4/L5, but that… — You can see where the disc is severely herniated in the lowest disc above my tailbones. (Between L5/S1 for those that know…) That large black protrusion should not be there. I also have a partially herniated disc above it in the L4/L5, but that one was left alone during surgery.

Saturday, March 18th

We text Dr. Fong to let him know we'd like to do the surgery. Even though it's a Saturday, the clinic is open, so I go and get my labs and blood work done.

Total cost of labs/blood work: $45 USD

Tuesday, March 21st

I have another appointment with Dr. Fong to go over the details of my surgery and review my labs.

Thursday, March 23rd (surgery day)

I have my last meal and last liquids before 8 am. I check into the hospital at 2 pm and my surgery is scheduled for 5 pm. When checking in, we pay part of our hospital bill up front and they explain that additional costs incurred will be charged upon my discharge the next day. My room is private with its own bathroom and also has a couch/futon for Christian to stay the night if he wants. The nurses prep me, giving me an IV and compression socks. I'm rolled out at 5 pm on the dot. Dr. Fong greets me in the operating room and introduces me to the anesthesiologist, who asks me some questions and then explains what will happen. We go over the details of the surgery once more and I learn that I will be receiving a catheter (thankfully, after I'm put under). I was also intubated, so my meds to keep me asleep were administered through the IV.

The surgery took a few hours, and Dr. Fong even called Christian down to show him the nucleus that he'd removed and explain that everything went well. My incision was closed up and I was carted back up to the room where I was transferred back to my bed and left to rest and recover overnight.

Total cost for surgery and hospital stay: $4,886 USD

Checking into the hospital. Everyone was super helpful and friendly despite us not speaking much Spanish.

Don't worry, my name was only spelled wrong on this sign. In their defence, phonetically, according to how we pronounce our last name, this is how it would be spelled for Spanish. If we pronounced it correctly according to the Spanish alphabet, we'd… — Don't worry, my name was only spelled wrong on this sign. In their defence, phonetically, according to how we pronounce our last name, this is how it would be spelled for Spanish. If we pronounced it correctly according to the Spanish alphabet, we'd have to say, "Tootle"

Hospital gowns are so flattering, aren't they?

One of several of the fantastic nurses that tended to me putting my IV in.

Friday, March 24th

The next morning, Dr. Fong came to see me and answer any questions we might have about my recovery. I received a prescription for an antibiotic and an anti-inflammatory (no painkillers!). He let us know that the surgery was a very good decision on our part, as the nucleus of my disc had ruptured out in such a way that it was jammed between my nerves and pretty severely cutting off my sciatic nerve. The nerve was very red and inflamed and had we left it alone, I might've caused permanent damage. Thank God we were led down this path!

The nurses then fed me breakfast, my first and very highly anticipated meal in 24 hours, and sent Christian down to the front desk to pay the remainder of the bill and got me up and walking to prepare for my exit. It was painful and slow, but amazingly, I felt better than I had in months. My pain relief from my nerve was immediate, and though the surgical site would need time to heal, I was in high spirits.

TOTAL COST OF EVERYTHING: $5240

Walking out of the hospital! (Don't worry, they made me take a wheelchair after Christian took a photo of me shuffling triumphantly out of my hospital room.)

I then spent the next two solid weeks in a bed graciously loaned to us by Mauricio and Abi. Christian had worked it out that he would help with all their projects while I recovered in the back room of their beach house Airbnb, both of us equiped with Walkie-Talkies to communicate with. By the third or fourth day, I was starting to become more independent and able to do the simpler things such as get myself in and out of bed and on and off of the toilet by myself. For a 32-year-old who has always thrived on self-sufficiency, relying so heavily on Christian to help with even the smallest tasks was difficult for me, but I was so thankful for his support.

Christian building a bed frame for the mattress for the recovery room. He actually built it specifically for a height that would be more comfortable for me to get in and out of. What a guy!

Out for my first real walk, the very next day! My steps were slow and tiny, but it was good to move around!

Loulou, who was still living in the rig while I recovered inside the house, was a highly motivating factor behind my frequent walks.

One more note about this post and my surgery:

I wrote this post in such detail because I am hoping that my transparency about the process and the cost will help someone else out at some point. For those that are in a position where seeking out proper medical care because it's unaffordable, finding out that there are healthy and safe alternatives to the normal procedures can be very important knowledge. For those not in this situation, it might be a helpful glimpse into a world they're unfamiliar with. Our experience as a whole while in Mexico has been nothing but positive, but once we dove into the medical care side, we were floored by the efficiency of the system. We didn't go into the decision lightly, but we trusted our friend who recommended the surgeon (he had had extensive reconstructive spinal surgery from the same dr.) and trusted the surgeon to not recommend an unnecessary procedure.

That being said, we're so happy I went through with it. I'm a month out from surgery and I'm still blown away by how much better I feel now that I'm pain free. Though the pain only became extremely severe around Christmas, I've been living with moderate to slightly severe back pain for years, so it has been a truly life-changing experience.

April 03, 2017

Mexico, Part 14: La Paz, Carnaval, Whale Sharks and a failing Clutch Master Cylinder

April 03, 2017/ Christian Tuttle

Making it to La Paz

Our last post ended with us driving some sand track just north of Todos Santos with a failing clutch master cylinder. The signs and symptoms were as follows: the clutch pedal would depress and hold the clutch for about 1.5 seconds, and then the clutch would drop and violently reengage the flywheel, leaving the clutch pedal depressed, but with no feedback. We had rebuilt the clutch master cylinder in August in Montana just after purchasing Little Foot, and at the time I had noticed some pitting in the cylinder's wall. I knew that the pitting was bad, but because I was most of the way through the rebuild, I figured I would complete the job and see if the new rubber seals would hold. The seals held and continued to hold for 12,000kms, until the pitting caused enough damage to allow the brake fluid to bypass the rubber bits.

So there we were, on a sand track, trying desperately not to stop because starting from a standstill was violent, as I didn't have enough time to engage 1st (a locked, non-synchronized gear) and instead had to drop the clutch onto 2nd gear, which wasn't a pleasant affair. NEVER had I been happier about Little Foot's shift-on-the-fly low range gearbox, and his engage-on-the-fly locking differentials and 6 wheel drive. With four levers slamming back and forth we made it out of the sand that desperately wanted to drag us down.

We limped Little Foot to La Paz, stopping only a handful of times and taking every stop sign and traffic light at a rolling pace. We made it to La Paz, found an RV park that offered dry camping, and parked with a great deal of relief. We were in a paid parking spot, with water, wifi, and bathrooms, and that freed us up to diagnose. I was fairly certain our problem was the clutch master cylinder, but I called two experts in California just to get their input as well, and they agreed. My parts supplier (check them out, they are AWESOME for UniMog, Pinz, and GWagen sales, supplies, and support: expeditionimports.com) had a new master cylinder in stock, which was excellent, but it was all the way in California, and between me and it lay a national border. Shipping, even just to Baja, was going to be a pain (because of customs), so we spent many hours calling in many favors, especially from our friend Mauricio and his business partner Scotty. I recognize that the write up of all this seems pretty straight forward, but trust me, it was a maelstrom of international calls and multi-lingual texts.

All the while, we had begun to develop neighbors in our secluded dry-camping area. The rest of the RV park was fairly well packed with cookie-cutter big-rigs, but soon the dry camping area filled out with the coolest rigs around. Strange birds of a feather follow the same rules as the rest of the flock! First, a newer Land Cruiser pulled up with a mostly stock body, save for its pop-top roof. Its inhabitants turned out to be German and Austrian, with one of them being from the Pinzgauer region of Austria! What luck! I asked her if she had any spare Pinzgauer parts, but alas, she did not. Next, Christa and Johan, whom we had met in Todos Santos, arrived in their older Land Cruiser outfitted with an AlphaCab camper box. They are Swiss, which means Johan is a veteran of mandatory military service and trained in Pinzgauers back in the day. Lastly, another Swiss gentleman showed up in his Hyundai 4WD van, who also trained in Pinzgauers! We were surrounded by people who knew that choosing to travel, or even drive, in a Pinzgauer was a crazy and borderline bad idea. (As evidence, when we first met Johan and Christa on the streets of Todos Santos we introduced ourselves as the drivers of the Pinzgauer they had seen rolling around, to which Johan replied, "AH! So you're the masochists!")

Surrounded by Europeans who knew better than to buy a Pinz!

Down time at the rv park meant it was a good time to catch up on our blog posts.

I took the time to check the valves while parked - i like to do it at every oil change - and while I was at it I taught some other travelers how to use a feeler gauge.

Whale Sharks

(Chelsea here…I'm writing this section since Christian wasn't there!)

While Christian stayed back at the truck trying to get the ball rolling on getting our part and rotating the tires, I got to tag along with the Swiss/German bunch to go swim with whale sharks. It was the one big thing I'd had my heart set on doing while we were down in Baja, and when our clutch started going between Todos Santos and La Paz, Christian broke the news to me that it likely wouldn't happen. Lucky us, the amazing folks parked around us had arranged a group trip together and I was able to tag along to fulfill my dream.

The boat they'd booked was small and intimate, perfect for our group of six. As we motored out to the bay, breaking down only once, we changed into our wet suits and got our snorkel gear and GoPros ready. It's a very laid-back process, with several boats communicating by radio to let the captains know where the whale sharks are located. The boats then circle around, trawling slowly to keep up with the ever-moving creatures. Each load of people takes a turn, jumping into the water with fanfare when the captain says "go." The water fills with splashing and fumbling snorkelers, all vying for an up close and personal glimpse of the massive creature, all the while, the whale shark continues swimming, unfazed by the clamor around it. When the crowd tires and the whale shark disappears into the murky turquoise, the swimmers return to their boat and the next boat gets in place to drop its eager visitors into the water.

Being with such a small group was a huge bonus, as it meant we weren't fighting each other to get close to the whale shark. The water was just murky enough to make it difficult to discern which direction to go once in the water. I had a very difficult time managing the waves that were splashing into my snorkel and choking me with saltwater. After a few minutes of this, I became a bit jumbled and turned around, so I had to stop, reach up and empty my snorkel to continue. With the situation under control, I dunked back under the water, only to reel back in surprise that I was directly above the whale shark we'd been pursuing. In my struggle, I hadn't noticed the giant creature heading my way right before I'd gone above water. They'd warned us not to touch the whale sharks, which I respected, as I'm of the opinion that we're messing with their environment enough just swimming around them. I was so close, I actually had to make a concerted effort to not disturb the beast or graze its flesh. I floated there, holding my breath, as the form moved swiftly and gracefully below me, very barely missing me with its giant tail fin as it continued into the depths.

The GoPro I was haphazardly swinging around in my right hand caught the shadow of the head before it swung with me above water, then, after capturing my choking escapade, it picked up the moment I dunked back in. Full disclosure…I'm not very good with a GoPro. I'm a photographer by career, but I tend to get shaky, blurry and poorly framed content whenever I use a GoPro. Luckily, I was videoing, so at least I got something, but the quality is lacking. Apologies ahead of time for the crooked photos!

I tired out fairly quickly, as kicking and swimming were pure torture on my back. We had jumped into the water a total of four times and in addition to being above the whale shark once, a second time had enabled me to swim right beside it for quite a while, getting a wonderful glimpse of the giant creature. As the rest of the group continued their pursuit, I climbed back into the boat, satisfied with my experience.

The image my GoPro saw that I didn't, right before I pulled it up to adjust my snorkel.

The moment I put my head and GoPro back underwater, I was greeted with a close encounter!

As you can see, I was inches from the whale shark. I this shot, you can see the scarred fin, likely caused from rubbing on the bottom of a boat.

This time I swam beside the whale shark, not above.

Climbing back in with fins and a bum back was difficult!

Carnaval

We arrived in La Paz on a Friday afternoon, after my specialty parts shop in US was already closed, so we had to wait the entire weekend before even confirming that they had the part in stock. Saturday was spent diagnosing, Sunday doing our Bible study and twiddling our thumbs, Monday calling frantically... the days extended longer than I wanted, but it gave us yet another chance to slow down. We've been perfecting the art of slow travel since 2014, and God keeps giving us chances to slow down even more. Carnaval extended all weekend, and we visited the malacon to see the parade on Monday, the night it was closing down. The food was out of this world, with many stalls offering many unhealthy foods. Available were churros, tacos, hot cakes, hot dogs, breads and candies of every sort - think state fair food, but dirt cheap and way better.

The parade was great. Many, many floats, some amateur and some professional blared traditional Mexican, pop, and Mexican pop. Many floats were produced and staffed by local dance schools, meaning that the every float had every kind of person, and every kind of body dancing away to the music. None of the standard beauty-pageant-only attitude - everyone was welcome. One float, our favorite, was created by a local school for disabled children, which made us love the inclusion and think of our amazing nephew Paxton.

Speaking of the little dude Paxton, Wednesday of that week was World Rare Disease Day! So, in honor of my inspirational nephew Paxton, I shaved an inspirational mustache into my face. The next day we left La Paz, under our own power but not happy about it. The clutch master cylinder was working well enough to drive, but it wasn't a sustainable action. We set our eyes on Loreto (a favorite Baja city of ours…and the location of the one person who'd been able to give Chels pain relief for her back), and at the encouragement of Johan and Christa, and at the discouragement of Little Foot, we drove on, north into Baja, intent on making it to Loreto to await our part.