November 27, 2023

Oct 31 - Nov 2 : Finding our trip's second wind in Rancho San Dionisio

November 27, 2023/ Christian Tuttle

Our second night of our two night stay in Hotel Casa Bonita was less stressful than the first - my painful cough was still present, but I was sucking down cough syrup as fast as I could, so sleep came slightly easier. My medico had told me the best I could do was manage symptoms and wait a week or two for the virus to pass, so that’s what I did. The next morning was easy, and we packed up quickly to make a 9AM meetup at a local empanada stand. Sam and Tyler, our friends from Idaho, had been invited to trade some photo work for a discounted van tour of southern Baja Sur, furnished by a Seattle-based tour company. They had flown into Cabo and were on a weeklong journey, with the duties of capturing images of the vans in idyllic camp spots and at local attractions along the way. Tyler’s brother Keith and his partner Katey had arranged the trip, as Katey works for the company. The original plan called for two vans, one for Katey and Keith, and one for Sam and Tyler, allowing for more vans in the photos and giving Sam vehicular autonomy to set up long distance shots and trail her drone as they collected footage, all while enjoying an experience very similar to the authentic product of renting a vintage VW Westfalia and driving it around the dirt roads of Baja. Unfortunately, Sam and Tyler’s van had lost a power steering seal two days into the trip, resulting in their van developing a slow leak that turned into a fast leak and culminated in an explosion of red ATF fluid all over a workshop in La Paz. While this was seen as a total bummer at the time, and meant that Sam and Tyler would be riding four-up with Katie and Keith for the remainder of the trip, I argue that there is no experience more authentic to van travel than a mechanical malfunction in a far away land, and the adjustment of expectations required to keep a trip moving.

We slammed some empanadas and handed out some radios for better van-to-van communication, then we hit the road. Katey had lined up some local attractions, first stopping at a cactus sanctuary for a self guided walking around the eco-tourist attraction, and then a quick tour of a bakery in the mining town of El Triunfo, and then on to camp at Rancho San Dionisio, a newer overland camp tucked up in a nature preserve that iOverlander said was not to be missed. The highway to EL Triunfo and beyond was windy, well paved and enjoyable. The dirt road to get to the side quest of the Cactus Sanctuary was excellent, a mix of sand and dirt with a few dry washes to keep things interesting. Walter performed very well, with his throttle cable fix still apparently holding, and the lone remaining VW plowed on ahead of us, sagging a little from the weight but benefiting from the added traction.

We supplied up in Los Barriles, and then ditched the red van to set out on our own and get to the ranch just a little more quickly. The sun was already getting lower than we wanted, and we had heard that the drive to the ranch could be…adventurous, so we wanted to give ourselves as much sun as we could. Team VW was comfortable with driving later in the day, but we weren’t, and that’s why vehicle autonomy is so important, it lets you take the risks you want to take, when you want to take them. For us, our risk calculation put us in the canyon just before golden hour, perfect timing for some amazing scenic shots of the river and valley leading to Rancho San Dionisio. We wanted to keep pressing on, as we were driving a twisty dirt road we had never driven before, pretty close to dusk, but I forced Chelsea out of the van a few times because the light was so good. Like always, she made the best of a good situation.

This is Christian’s “I love empanadas” face.

This is another angle of Christian’s “I love empanadas” face. (Thanks for the shot, Sam!)

Following one very loaded VW van to the Cactus Sanctuary.

A “No mascotas” greeted us on the info sign, so Gracie had to leave.

Gracie didn’t complain - it meant she got to play disc in the parking lot!

Walter playing peek-a-boo from the lot into the Cactus Sanctuary.

Notice the downed cactus that all the other VERY tall cacti are growing from.

One of the many beautiful paths through the Cactus Sanctuary.

A VERY rare candid image of the whole family in one photo! Thanks Sam!

Sam flying her drone to get some shots of the lone VW driving the sandy path out.

She took a courtesy shot of Walter for us…thanks Sam!

The gorgeous afternoon light hit the river canyon just right for some spectacular views and colors.

Chels tried to get a few glamor shots with Walter and the canyon…the angle just didn’t quite work, but still spectacular!

The road had been recently repaired from to fix many washouts as a direct result of the recent hurricane.

We were chasing the last of the light through the mountains.

The views just kept getting better as the low light filtered over the mountains.

We only nearly died once on the way to Rancho San Dionisio, as the road would go from wide sand track to a single lane trail peppered with blind curves and boulders blocking the view of oncoming traffic. There weren’t many other trucks on the road, but it was quitting time and some of the workers were pretty eager to get to town, including one guy that was not expecting us, and had to slam on his brakes, throwing his little blue pickup into a four wheeled slide that put him dangerously close to Walter and even closer to the edge of the cliff that was the shoulder. Thankfully, no one was hurt and he sheepishly waved and smiled apologetically as we maneuvered around each other and continued on our way.

Arriving at the ranch, we were greeted by Isabel, one half of the owner-operator duo that runs the ranch. Her partner Clarence was out at the moment, so she got us settled at the best spot in the campground, close enough to the pavilion and bathrooms for convenience, but still privately nestled under a giant, ancient tree. Team VW arrived shortly after us, and Clarence gave us a property tour, showing off his very productive garden and all of the recent property improvements, including a beautiful open air communal kitchen, impeccable composting toilets, and the well manicured trail to the crystal clear river. The entire property is spectacular, and we had already decided to spend two nights there the moment we started driving through the canyon, regardless of what team VW had for an itinerary. Rancho San Dionisio is the kind of place that can make you change your plans - it’s our understanding that Clarence and Isabel were on a longterm PanAmerican roadtrip when the chance to invest in the land and rehabilitate the colonial area property was offered to them. The valley can enchant you right off your travels, pull you from the road and tie you to the land, it’s just that good. Our first night was very comfortable, complete with a communal dinner and a campfire, and only one death defying scare from Gracie as she eagerly investigated a giant scorpion in the open air kitchen. She had been trailing the critter, only a few inches from its arched tail, as it ran across the shiny cement floor, as if wondering Will you be my friend? No Gracie, no it will not be your friend.

The next morning we were greeted with hot coffee - Clarence gets up every morning and makes coffee for his guests, and we understand he’s had up to thirty people camping with him during the busy season. He says the max capacity of the campground is roughly 15 overland rigs, from giant 6x6 rigs all the way down to cyclists, with the biggest parked in between the rows of his lime trees. After an easy morning we were motivated to hike about an hour up the valley to a picturesque swimming hole, described to us as the best swimming hole in the entire valley, so we donned our adventure outfits and headed off. The trail was really nice, even flagged in some places for an upcoming adventure race. The trails lead all over the valley and up into the mountains, even connecting to a neighboring coastal town across the mountain range, Todo Santos. Clarence was describing the local ecosystems, and told us that if we walked far enough we would eventually hit pine forests, thousands of feet up in elevation. Baja contains multitudes, and it’s easy to forget that this sandy peninsula also has a rocky spine of peaks running down its back.

Clarence wasn’t wrong and the swimming hole didn’t disappoint. The water was nearly iridescent in its clarity. With little to no current human impact above us in the water shed, there wasn’t much in the pool but hydrogen and oxygen. No slime, no critters, no fish, no nothing. The swimming was amazing and the sun bathing maybe even better. Gracie played stick with everyone, Chelsea and Sam took a bunch of photos, I just stood there with my jaw dropped, mouth agape like I was trying to breathe in as much of our surroundings as possible. It was a dose of much needed travel magic, the kind of place that rewards you for your distance and your determination to get to where you didn’t know you were going.

The walk back to the ranch was even better than the walk out, as now we knew where we were going. The cactus were stunning, the river crossings that got us a little lost on the way out were clear and fun and challenging on the way back. We ran into some horses and Chelsea looked for an old cowbell that she had spotted on the way out. Gracie was kept on leash, for fear of wild pigs and poisonous snakes, but she didn’t mind. Back at the ranch we relaxed, marveled at more of Clarence and Isabel’s ingenuity (I begged for and got a tour of his solar arrays and battery banks), and eventually returned to the nearest river frontage for another dip in the last light before dinner. The night drifted into a million conversations about travel, trucks, homesteading, and more. Gracie, satisfied with chasing scorpions, investigated a tarantula instead, and was promptly banished to a comfortable chair, elevated high above the realm of the creepy-crawlies.

The next morning we packed up, a little slower than team VW as they had more to do and further to drive than us. We took some family photos, making the best use of photographer friend Sam, and then waved goodbye to our short-term traveling buddies. Eventually, we had no more reason to stay at San Dionisio, so we traded contact information with Clarence and headed back down the dirt road, leaving the oasis we didn’t know we needed in the rear view mirror.

Clarence leading the way through some young orchards to his established gardens.

A beautiful garden with some young lettuce poking out.

The closest river access to the camp - a perfectly beautiful spot to soak and watch the sun creep by.

Christian, contemplating whether or not he should go inflate his packraft.

A well-stocked kitchen made preparing meals a delight.

The scorpion that Gracie had attempted to befriend, with Christian’s hand for scale. (Clarence doesn’t like his guests being in danger of scorpion bites, so this little guy didn’t get to live…we were all just fine with this outcome.)

A dream-team in the kitchen making breakfast for the crew…including using the last of Ricky’s thick-cut bacon!

Doing dishes - Another rare candid photo of both us in the same shot! Thanks Sam!

It’s not every day you get to camp under a 100+ year-old tree.

Sometimes Gracie gets to ride on my shoulders.

The first picturesque swimming hole of the hike.

The whole family prefers fresh water swims. (Thanks for the great shot of Gracie, Sam!)

Hiking a few miles more to find the “best” swim hole.

“Take a left when you get to the giant fig tree and you’re almost there.”

The magical “best” swimming hole. Clarence was right. It was awesome.

The bubbles from the small waterfall created a sort of “treadmill” effect that allowed you to swim in place against the current.

While the walk into the swimming holes was barely a hike, this was a huge accomplishment for Chelsea. It was the furthest she’d been able to walk since we began the trip and she was pain and numbness free the whole way.

At some point I promised Tyler quesadillas and guacamole if he could swing “all the way around”. While he didn’t accomplish the feat, he made a gallant effort and still got snacks.

Rules for when you’re camped by the cleanest/clearest spring-fed river in Baja - swim as many times as possible.

A captive audience while Clarence imparts some of his travel wisdom. (Great shot, Sam!)

Another shot by Sam, because Chelsea wouldn’t get anywhere near an eight-legged creature this big (think palm-of-your-hand-sized…at *least*.)

We put Gracie “to bed” in a lawn chair to keep her away from all the creepy-crawlies that inevitably kept coming by to say hi. (Another great shot by Sam!)

Chelsea and Sam doing their “photographer” thing while Tyler and I share a knowing glance about what happens when the two relentless shutterbugs get together.

Leaving the oasis to move on to our next chapter of travels.

Chelsea Couldn’t resist trying for some drone shots on the way out. The canyon itself is a protected biosphere with no drones allowed, and Chels likes to respect the rules, regardless of whether there’s anyone to enforce them.

Not bad, but nothing compared to the breathtaking river-canyon we’d just driven out of.

November 22, 2023

Oct 28 - Oct 30 : Agua Verde, a crisis of trip in Ciudad Constitución and finding some friends in La Paz

November 22, 2023/ Christian Tuttle

We left Loreto after a second night and a fun, wide-open-throttle test drive of the Delica to ensure that our transmission’s shift points were still in the ballpark of normalcy. My “adjustment” of the throttle kick-down cable seemed to have done the job, but with the intermittent nature of the issue looming in the back of my mind, I couldn’t be sure. I knew that I would be paying attention to shift points, rpms, and take-off power for the rest of the trip, or at least until I could do some serious wrench spinning.

We headed south out of Loreto with the intention of making it to La Paz, but about 20 minutes into the drive we decided to make a detour for a night at Agua Verde, one of our favorite stops from our last trip. It’s a town, it’s a beach, it’s a destination, for us it’s a memory, for others it’s a dream, for Outside Magazine it was a 2-page spread of teal waters, tan sand, and tall cacti. We hadn’t properly provisioned for a beach stay - the last time we went to Agua Verde, we packed the Pinzgauer with water, food, and supplies with the intention of staying on the beach for as long as possible. This time, we had almost nothing, and what we did have was just a collection of odds and ends as far as food was concerned, so we stopped at Puerto Escondido, a large marina just south of Loreto, and got some over priced supplies at their very yachty, American tienda. From there we kept driving over the rolling hills until we found the turn to Agua Verde, a beautiful but rugged and exposed drive down a breathtaking canyon to the beach.

The drive down the canyon was easy, and we encountered some travelers headed in the same direction as Chelsea was landing her drone after taking some scenic photos. I shifted into AWD and low gear for the descent, and Walter crept along the broken road down. The drive is absolutely worth it, and I don’t think 4WD or high clearance is really necessary. It’s a little broken here and there, but decent tire placement will get you down to at least the beach. Once we were out of the canyon we were greeted by beautiful rolling sand tracks, Walter’s favorite type of trail. We made good time and easily found the left hand turn to our destination, a protected cove a few kilometers before Agua Verde proper.

Once we got there we found a few other campers and a lot of trash. One or two of the camp spots we remembered had since been filled in with heaping piles of refuse, either from the sea or (more likely) from users of the beach, and the others were taken by truck campers. The tide was out, and we considered buzzing down the beach to see if we could find a level, protected campsite far enough away from the water to not put Walter at risk when the tide rolled back in with the full moon that night, but nothing in view really fit. We released Gracie for some sand disc throws, and meandered down the beach, debating how safe we felt driving on the soft wet sand. Eventually we rounded a corner and saw that there were some more campers at one of the few remaining large sandy spots near an arroyo, and that there weren’t really any other spots available. We looked around, and instead of seeing the magical, golden beach of our memories and our stories, we saw a polluted, over used, over tagged, overland destination and that just wasn’t what we wanted. The drive down had been great, and that was enough for us. We headed back to the highway after eating a quick PB&J road lunch, and kept moving towards La Paz.

If we weren’t going to camp at Agua Verde, and we weren’t going to wild camp somewhere en route, we knew that the end result would be spending a night in CIudad Constiución, a little agricultural city on the Mex 1, nearly central in the state of Baja Sur. There were a few options for RV parks, one we had stayed at before on the far end of town, and a newer establishment (or newer to us at least). The iOverlander reviews were good and recent, supposedly there was WiFi and clean showers, so we decided to try something new in an attempt to break the rhythm of just revisiting old stops from our first trip. The sun was nearing the horizon as we pulled in, and despite the high price tag, empty pool and weak WiFi signal, we paid for a spot for the night. The neighbor was blaring music right next to the only spot that got a decent wireless signal, and there were flies everywhere, a result of some overripe figs falling from a tree directly above us, and we just weren’t having fun. The drive had been hot, and we had just lived the adventure travel equivalent of never-meet-your-heroes with our Agua Verde detour. I think we were a little more raw and vulnerable than we wanted to admit, and it all came to a head when Gracie growled at the RV park’s resident pit bull, causing a decent dog fight that honestly terrified both Chelsea and I. Gracie came out unscathed, I had a little bite on one hand (no broken skin), and the owner then locked the pit inside the apartment. Everything was okay, but we were over it, and the ensuing spiral of negativity left both of us broken and all but convinced that we wanted the trip to end.

I’m still struggling to figure out how to write about incidents like this because arguments between loved ones are often incredibly private, but the tiffs and the spirals and the arguments are products of the stress of travel, and any account of a journey that doesn’t show the negative with the positive isn’t honest. This traveling thing is stressful, and we have a lot of emotions and hopes and dreams and money tied up in following what we thought was our dream, so when the stress breaks us, it breaks us hard. It think it breaks all travelers hard. It’s difficult to go through a stressful uncomfortable day, then look at your dwindling bank account and the Instagram posts of everyone at home having fun and not think to yourself, “What am I doing here?”

The next morning we rallied slowly, with the emotional scars from the night before still raw, and left behind our disappointing RV park. We attempted to heal by seeking out some empanadas for breakfast, and they did not disappoint. A couple cups of coffee and a few oily Mexican hand pies later, we set out to make the last 100kms to La Paz.

Parking with the small boat trailers at the Puerto Escondido Marina while seeking out their spendy teinda.

Rolling hills on our way to the turn to Agua Verde.

Anything is a pillow when you’re dog tired.

The tanker truck seen on the road ahead of us very nearly took us out while passing us on a windy downhill section with a steep drop-off. We always maintain to anyone that asks “Is Mexico safe?” that the most dangerous part of our travels down here is the driving.

The always impressive Mountains of Baja Sur.

An aerial shot of the canyon drive into Agua Verde.

The hassle of launching the drone is almost always worth it.

Gracie was excited with anticipation of stopping for the day for some disc throws on a big beach.

Gracie waiting expectantly while we ponder why the unfriendly people in a second truck camper not pictured didn’t wave back when we tried to say hello. We’ve noticed a strange trend of antisocial behavior from fellow campers and travelers while on this trip. We’re not sure if it’s a holdover from Covid or a defensive “I found it first” when you arrive to what *feels* like should be a secluded secret camp spot. Either way, it’s discouraging when we’re used to pulling up and making new friends everywhere we go.

Gracie doesn’t care that the beach isn’t the paradise we remembered so fondly.

A full moon rising over a mediocre RV park at a halfway point in our trek down Baja.

Empanadas so fresh that the dough was made and shaped after we ordered, then filled with our menu choices and set before us piping hot from the oil.

We rolled into La Paz in the afternoon, and scoped out our usual RV park on the outskirts of town. It was hot (again) and we were dying for some A/C, so we decided to get a hotel in town for the night. Looking for hotels in big cities is often difficult for overland travelers, even for van dwellers like us that don’t have a BIG rig. We found a review on iOverlander for a gringo-ran hotel with secure parking, a pool, and a traveler-positive vibe, with some reviews even stating that the owners helped them arrange a booking on the ferry. The price wasn’t too bad, roughly $49 USD a night, and Gracie was welcome to stay in the room with us, and a continental breakfast was served in the mornings, so we went with it. As an added motivation, we were meeting some friends from Idaho in town as they were coming down for a short van trip of their own, so the downtown-adjacent location of the hotel was helpful for short commutes - our Uber rides ended up being roughly $3 USD.

We met our Idaho friends Sam and Tyler that evening; they had flown into Cabo to partner with a van tour company to provide photos in exchange for a discounted trip. They had been on the road for a day or two and were slated to spend two nights in La Paz, which was a fine amount of time for us as it bought us a day to get things done, like laundry and booking a ferry. We strolled the downtown and then met for dinner and watched an impromptu Halloween parade on the malecón (we learned that Halloween has caught on in a big way in Baja, but without the traditional American-style suburban neighborhoods to trick-or-treat in, some places will hold “parades” where costumed children can stand on the sidewalk to receive candy). Some of the bars and clubs had decorations up, and there were some costumed revelers making mischief, but the best part was the decorated cars cruising the strip in bumper-to-bumper traffic, blaring music and throwing candy (and even handing out beers). It seemed like the drivers were rolling in little car clubs, with a handful of Jeeps passing by and then Mustangs and then classic cars, with locals in daily drivers partying the hardest. Most of the cars were wrapped in fake cobwebs and caution tape, with the drivers and passengers in costumes, and more than one had stuffed mannequins slammed in the hood or the trunk. The parade definitely wasn’t sanctioned, and it meant that all the fun was spread out in normal traffic, but that made it better. The malecón was a party for and by the people that night.

We had tacos at an empty mezcal bar, the kind of place that is designed for a party and really seems vacant if no one is there, but at least the service was fast, and then we introduced Sam, Tyler and their traveling cohorts to street hamburguesas and after-dinner palletas. The in-town vibe was good and we had a nice night, until we got home to Gracie’s incessant barking. We’re not sure if she was barking the whole evening, but she might have been, and we were thankful Sam had kindly brought us a behavior correction collar from the states, as we had forgotten ours at home.

That night my low-level respiratory issues became low-level respiratory distress, as I had a hard time breathing and my dry cough went from bad to worse. Chelsea had a tough time sleeping, as when I wasn’t coughing she was afraid I wasn’t breathing, so the next morning she made me seek out a doctor and a pharmacist. Like most big towns, La Paz is peppered with farmacias, establishments very similar to an American pharmacy, but with a doctor or medico attached. The medico has an office directly next to the pharmacy, and you go see him for a quick (like REALLY quick) assessment, and then he writes a prescription, and the pharmacist fills it right there. I wandered in, explained my symptoms, and was immediately prescribed steroids and cough syrup. To be completely honest, I was a little uncomfortable with how quickly the medico prescribed steroids, and the gusto with which he talked me into them being delivered by injection. I was also a little uncomfortable by the near complete lack of patient assessment - he only asked me my symptoms, and didn’t take my temperature or visually assess my throat or palpate anything. He just kind of eyeballed me, told me that he was sick too and I had what he had, probably RSV, and that was that, now bend over and drop your trousers.

The big ‘ol shot of steroids worked pretty quickly and I was feeling better, but certainly not cured, in less than an hour. We spent the rest of the day getting little things done, like adding some UV protection to our 26-year-old coolant expansion tank on the van and booking a ferry reservation at the Transportación Marítima de California (TMC) office. We had two choices for the ferry route from La Paz to Mazatlán, Baja Ferries and TMC. We had heard Baja Ferries was the choice for most passengers bokting cabins for rent and a large lounge, and TMC was the choice for commercial traffic, but that Baja Ferries didn’t allow travelers to sleep in their vehicles and dogs either had to be crated and stored in the hold or kept in one of very few (and pricey) pet-friendly cabins. We wanted to do the cool thing and ride with the truck traffic and sleep in our van, so we headed to the in-town office to book a reservation, the first step in actually getting on a boat.

At the office parking lot I once again cursed my poor Spanish and steeled myself for a complicated, multi-lingual reservation process, only to be pleasantly surprised at the ease of the entire endeavor. The bookings agent asked a few details, like intended departure date, length of the vehicle, number of passengers, and telephone number, and then we were done! It was maybe a 10-minute affair, with the hardest part being calling Chelsea to bring in her passport.

Meanwhile, our Idahoan friends had spent all day trying to sort out a blown power steering seal on their rental VW van. The night before it had been making an excellent racket with any input from the steering wheel, and at the Peace Center, a downtown traveler hostel that offers parking for small rigs, the van had been slowly bleeding red ATF all over the gravel, a sight not uncommon to Tyler and I as he is a snow-cat based ski guide and I had worked around enough wounded snow groomers to know a blown hydraulic system when I saw one - old cats love to bleed! With their van in the operating room and me wishing my RSV (or… COVID????) would take the hint and disappear, we skipped meeting up the second night in La Paz and made plans to get breakfast before our journey continued the next day to a desert oasis high in the hills of Baja California Sur.

Parked inside the courtyard at Hotel Casa Buena.

Aftermath from the hurricane…beached and partially sunken boats were littered up and down the malecon.

Tyler and Sam came to pick us up in their rad VW rental van. It was not long for the road though, so we only got one ride in it.

Introducing Tyler to my favorite traveling pasttime of Pose-like-the-object-behind-you-while-Chelsea-takes-a-photo.

Tyler caught on to my game immediately. A for effort, Tyler.

Passing on my knowledge of hamburguesas.

The whole place was really dog friendly.

Adding protective tape to minimize UV damage on my expansion tank.

Booking a ticket at the TMC office in downtown La Paz.

I couldn’t say no to some elevated, craft elote.

And Chelsea couldn’t say no to some street dogs.

Chelsea had looked fervently on Google Maps throughout the trip and had found the one and only (advertised) dog park in Baja. It turned out to be a brand new agility course.

At first, Gracie was excited, but then quickly realized Chelsea wanted to try and make her go through the course.

Chelsea finally relented and settled for throwing the disc. Gracie was much more pleased with this activity.

When we’re worried about street and neighborhood dogs rushing Gracie, she goes up on my shoulders for safe keeping.

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.

November 06, 2023

Oct 16 - Oct 20 : Ensenada: Coffee shops, travelers, and an MRI

November 06, 2023/ Christian Tuttle

We left the Bellinghausen brewery that morning and started towards Ensenada at the direction of our old friend Mauricio, but only after indulging in an overpriced tourist breakfast on the main drag of Valle de Guadalupe. Driving around the afternoon prior, we had noticed the growth, the development of the past six years. Everything was the same and everything was different. Where there had once been a single development of modern micro-casitas in the valley, now multiple properties boasted flocks of yurts, glass faced stand alone bedrooms, and pop-up geodesic domes, with more tiny foundations showing the continued growth of the trend. Where there had once been a couple incredibly polished wineries in a valley of dusty ranch estates, now there were modern monoliths dotting the thoroughfares. The amenities of downtown had been mom-and-pop restaurant store fronts, little shops selling basic desayunos or birria or tacos, but now there were well-faced restaurants with freshly washed patios and waiters running around in pressed black slacks and stiff white aprons. Lots had changed, little hand changed, and change is neither good nor bad, but it was all evidence that we had been away for six years.

A breakfast of chilaquiles in Valle de Guadalupe.

Hobbling back to the brewery-turned-camp-spot, intent on getting some answers about Chelsea’s back very soon.

When offered the chance to order an affogato in a beautiful vineyard, you must order an affogato in a beautiful vineyard.

One of the many stunning views from the excellent coffee shop.

We got ahold of Mauricio via WhatsApp and he wanted to see us. A little confusion between us meant that we went to go check out his sister’s new coffee shop in the Valle before we realized he was actually waiting for us at his wife Abigail's new coffee shop on Ensenada’s Malécon, which meant my morning was going to be a series of shots of espresso. His sister’s coffee shop was wonderful, an airy, clean, artsy spot with fresh herbs growing on the veranda, but Abi’s shop was on the other end of the Ensenada spectrum - urban, artsy, busy with local art on the walls and design details that felt very at home on the city’s front step, as welcoming to workers grabbing to-go coffees as it was to discerning gastro-tourists looking for the best lobster croissant in Baja.

Mauricio was waiting on the street for us, defending a parking spot just for us, welcoming us with the open arms of a close friend and professional tour guide. If we were in the US, I would refer to him as the next mayor of Ensenada, but not knowing the socio-political weight of that role in Mexico, it has to suffice to say that he promotes Ensenada because he is Ensenada - a vessel that contains an otherwise unlikely mix of excellence. The city, like him, is as at home with world-class motor sports racing as it is with award winning multi-generational vineyards, comfortable showcasing both traditional street food and modern, borderline urbane fine dining, welcoming of the single day cruise line tourist and the multi-year overlanders, and those like us, somehow caught in between it all. He and his wife are explorers, tour guides, adventurers, and thankfully, our hosts in Baja. I hesitate to call him a fixer, but I believe he’s got a guy for everything, and it was our mission after that third cup of coffee to go find one of his guy’s that he had set us up with years before: Dr. Fong, Chelsea’s neurosurgeon.

We had been trying to contact Dr. Fong on the way down, hoping to get an appointment with him and a referral for an MRI to check on Chelsea’s back, both to see how the old surgery from the first Mexico trip was holding up, and to see if there was any obvious injury causing Chelsea’s new symptoms. Some contact information had changed, six years had gone by, and we weren’t even sure if Dr. Fong was still practicing, but eventually we got through to him after confirming a few phone numbers with Mauricio. We exchanged WhatsApp messages, got our point across about the recent onset of pain and numbness, and had an “order” for some MRIs in no time (“order’ may be a overstatement, as all we had was text message from him, asking for lumbar and pelvic images and directions to show it to the receptionist at the imaging center.)

Over caffeinated and hopped up on adrenaline from driving a RHD van around the busy streets of the city, we found our way back to Burboa Radiológos, the setting of one of our favorite stories to tell about our first trip to Baja. When describing the travel magic of our first trip in 2016, or when trying to persuade American acquaintances to not fear Mexico and to think “outside the box” when it comes to searching for less expensive solutions to high skill services, we often tell the story of Chelsea’s back surgery. It’s a story of two scared kids, their old cat, and their big Swiss Army truck, looking for an inexpensive diagnosis for some back pain. We were advised to visit a doctor, who directed us to an MRI center which was easily identifiable due to the giant carcass of a spent MRI core sitting in the parking lot. It’s a story of a $238 medical bill including the MRI and 3 x-rays that happened after we were given profuse apologies that the center was running behind schedule, and they couldn’t fit us in until 10:30AM despite it being only 9:45AM and despite us not having an appointment. It’s a story that has become myth even in my brain, and I was there for it. It’s also a story that I thought was partially a one-off: surely the memory of the MRI core in the parking lot was a little fabricated, the MRI core couldn’t have just been sitting there, that is too storybook, and surely the promptness of the appointment was a fluke, no office runs that well. It couldn’t have been as easy as I remembered, and if it was, it must have been luck, the kind of luck that doesn’t come twice.

Well, it wasn’t luck, or if it was, luck it showed up twice. The offices of Burboa Radiológos was right where we remembered, carcass of an MRI and all. We paused for photos before heading inside, where we were met by a receptionist with a sweet smile that didn’t fade when she realized we couldn’t speak or understand Spanish, but did entirely disappear when she learned that we didn’t have an appointment. As it was our first day in Ensenada, our plan of attack was to head straight to the MRI office unannounced, and either try to get an appointment for that day, or make an appointment in person, as it is a lot easier for us to communicate in person than over a phone. Using a translate app, the three of us hastily typed out messages back and forth, the receptionist now scowling with disapproval at our lack of an appointment.

”I do not have an apointment. I need an MRI. Pelvic and lumbar,” we typed.
”No appointment?” the receptionist responded.
"No appointment. We can wait. We can return tomorrow,” we explained.
”Ay dios mio…” sighed the receptionist, shaking her head at us, the uneducated, needy Americans, “… I will get you the next available appointment,” she typed into her computer’s text translator.
”We can return tomorrow,” we replied, repeating what was already on our screen.
”Your appointment is for 1:40PM. Go sit over there,” she directed, with an air of exasperation and I-did-what-I-could energy. I glanced at my watch, it was 1:29PM, and Chelsea’s appointment was in 11 minutes. I love Baja.

Three of my favorite things: Walter the Delica, Chelsea, and private healthcare in Ensenada. Posing outside Burboa Radiológos

Our overall strategy for getting a diagnosis on Chelsea’s back was “hurry up and wait”, and we did the hurry up part, the driving through the US and the arranging of an MRI in the first 30 hours we were in Mexico. Now, we had to wait for Dr. Fong to read the images and get back to us with a diagnosis. Mauricio and Abigail had graciously offered to put us up in the parking area of their rental house on the coast, and we graciously accepted. It was a little like coming home, or returning to a dream, as this was where Chelsea had recuperated after her back surgery. We weren’t the only travelers being welcomed that day either, and soon we were in the good company of Noré of noregomez.oficial and his three very good dogs. Between Gracie, Nore’s border collies, and Mauricio and Abigail’s canines, we were surrounded and outnumbered by a veritable pack of salty, wild dogs.

We played fetch, we blogged, we met some of Mauricio’s other guests, who invited us to a evening of tuna head tacos by the fire, and we enjoyed a local multi-brewery cervecería that had sprung up next to the compound since we had been there last. Chelsea took to sleeping in the passenger seat of the Delica, fully reclined, as that was the only way she could keep her back from worsening. That adjustment was bittersweet for me, as I was terribly worried about her when I was awake, but I wasn’t often awake when I had the bed all to myself.

We got some errands done in Ensenada - I needed a haircut and Mauricio had a guy for that, and we needed some fish tacos, which were luckily located directly next to the barber. Walter needed a bath and wipe down, and our laundry bag was full, so that gave us something to do. We spent a day bumming around Ensenada, waiting and hoping that Dr. Fong had gotten Chelsea’s films to review. We heard from him late in the afternoon and set up an office visit for the following day, giving us time to see friends and family around the town, and enjoy more meals and coffees and beers than necessary. We caught up with two of our favorite tour-guides-turned-family, Mariana and Alex, and Chelsea even got to meet her long lost uncle Jay, who’d been living in Ensenada on and off for years.

Chelsea’s office visit went well, with Doctor Fong squeezing us in moments before closing up shop and going on a vacation (… travel magic?). He had set up the office visit directly with Chelsea via WhatsApp, which gave his receptionist quite the surprise when we walked into the mostly abandoned neurosurgical practice at 4:55PM. Chelsea’s spine looked fine, with the current acute pain coming from a badly pinched nerve, likely near the original surgical site from six years ago, and the next disc up that we were worried about was still intact, and wasn’t the cause of the pain. We were relieved, as surgery wasn’t recommended for the current problems, but that left Chelsea still in pain. Dr. Fong wrote some prescriptions for steroids and an anticonvulsant to treat the neuropathy, and convinced us that Chelsea would heal and the drugs would help, and until then to limit any activities causing her pain.

Travelers are like rashes, if you catch one it will probably spread and then you will have two.

It was a dog and traveler party, never a dull moment.

Gracie playing keep-away with her disc. Quickly, this disc would be torn in half during the heated rounds of fetch, leaving us with only TWO intact discs for the remainder of the trip!

Blogging, writing, napping, resting, waiting, at Mauricio’s.

A local feast with a table of travelers.

Chelsea had been relegated to sleeping in the passenger seat of the van. We were doing the best we could.

My two best friends resting in our rolling home.

Doing laundry and some online work, I am hiding in the shadows.

Getting the van washed, killing time waiting for a diagnosis.

Dinner and vino with Mariana and Alex, it had been too long!

Waiting for a doctor while waiting for a diagnosis.

Meeting with Dr. Fong, reviweing the most recent MRI.

On the morning of our departure we met Mauricio and Abigail at their new coffee shop, Barra Mineral, for breakfast, coffee, and advice. We were working our way around their menu, with Chelsea’s favorite being “Cafe de la Bruja”, a house americano with cinnamon and cardamom. I spread a paper map out in front of us and asked Mauricio, “So how do I get from here to there?” pointing at Mazatlán and Veracruz. He had some ideas, and I started circling cities on the map, adding pops of context to the otherwise completely un-contextualized land mass of central Mexico. We had been to the East, driving through Tamaulipas to Veracruz to the Yucatán, and we had driven the west, through the 1000+ miles of Baja, but we hadn’t driven through the middle, connecting the two coasts. At least now I had a fold-out map with a few cities circled in ink, and a travel mentor whispering in my ear “Go there, its the center of the universe…”

F(r)amily photo with Mauricio and Abigail!

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.