BAJA, CALIFORNIA, SUMMER 2021

I was cruising down the remote narrows of Highway 1 in Baja California (Mexico) dozens of miles from civilization when the most terrifying moment of my adult life took place. It was about 2pm, the sun was blazing high in a midnight blue sky and the outside temperature was 101 degrees with 11% humidity. I was driving alone in my massive RV at about 60 mph, eyes on full alert, nervous. Then the most unexpected happened – not narcos, not military police, not a flat tire, not an overheated engine – something vastly worse.

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Mexico, and in particularly the Baja peninsula has keened a siren call to me since my first visit on my 12th birthday to Tijuana. The scents of the leather shops, the bacon-wrapped hot dogs, the carne asada tacos, the latent smells of charcoal and wood fires mixing with an overlay of dust, sweat, and rotting garbage – it was so vastly different than my coddled suburban Michigan experience. I found it full of mystery and intrigue. There – there was a beggar with no arms and legs – how did he get there and who gave him the hand printed sign propped in front of him? The hundreds of stalls with all kinds of wares I had never seen before, the loud yet friendly bargaining, and… the best tacos I’d ever had for 25 cents? How could they even make money? And of course, the Mexican fireworks? Smoke bombs the size of baseballs, bottle rockets the size of two rolls of quarters, mortars for projectiles, and never mind the firecrackers and M80’s – let’s go bigger - I bought a dozen M160’s with twice the firepower and loudness of the boring old M80. People were drunk and drinking in public during the middle of the day on the streets. I loved the thrill, the sense of danger and yet the freedom. Laden with a bullwhip, a switchblade, a sword, and a large stash of illegal fireworks, my father and I re-crossed the border back to the USA. Times were different then and I flew home with all these dangerous items packed in my suitcase without incident.

The idea of the trip – to drive the full length of Baja California, stopping only at wild, remote uninhabited beaches – was a dream of mine since college. My senior year at Stanford in California my roommates and I had driven down through the border at Tijuana to the beach town of Ensenada where we rented a house for a week. We had a lovely Saltillo-tiled, two-story home to ourselves with views of the beach for pennies. Several nights we paid for a couple local abuelas (grandmothers) to come cook for us and one night we splurged for a lobster dinner. We went to the beach, to the Bufadora (blow hole), cliff diving, skateboarding at a local half-pipe and into town in the evenings to the bars and clubs. I was 21 and nearing graduation from college and had only just recently tried beer. Each evening at sunset we would hoist a few green Dos Equis lagers at the house before heading out for the evening to try and meet girls. Most memorable were the street tacos just a short walk from the house. Other than the home cooked meals, I think this was all I ate – freshly cooked carne asada with onion, cilantro, and a half dozen salsas, with fresh tortillas partially dipped in steak juice and seared moments before in the fat droppings. It was heaven in a tortilla.

At some point during our spring break visit a man we met let us know “Ensenada is nothing – as you go farther south it gets wilder and more remote. The world’s most beautiful beaches stretch for hundreds of miles with not a soul – you can do anything – go naked for a week, build a thatch roof hut, swim, surf, fish – it is the world’s last unspoiled paradise.” I resolved that someday I would go and take my time doing it. In July of 2021 I made that dream a reality…

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My hands gripped the wheel tightly and my senses were singularly focused on the sinuous curves of the pavement in order to keep the 38-foot-long, 12-foot-high, eight-foot-wide, 30,000lb diesel RV centered on the narrow slick of black asphalt. I was nearly midway on my 1,500-mile journey from Las Vegas to San Jose del Cabo. Having recently left the high desert of “Valley of the Giants” in Baja California Norte (BCN) and the associated towering cacti and single-trunk Dr. Seuss-like trees, I dropped in elevation, heading to the left coast crossing into Baja California South (BCS). Over the hours I traversed the crenelated slopes and dry washes down towards the Sea of Cortez. Following the undulating curves of the freshly paved grade, I emerged into the browns and yellows of mesquite and cacti and the low desert of BCS (Baja California South).

Highway One, here, at the center of the Baja peninsula, was extraordinarily treacherous. The relatively smooth asphalt was cantilevered up from the surrounding desert by an eight-foot berm with steep slopes on both sides. Worse still, there was no apron and where the asphalt abruptly ended there was an 8-inch vertical drop from the thickness of the pavement to the steeply sloped dirt wall below. If even one wheel were to drop off the ledge, the entire vehicle might be immediately launched down the side into potential oblivion. A car might survive this kind of drop, but for this tall, top-heavy RV, any deviation might lead to a catastrophic and potentially life-ending tumble.

During these long stretches, I drove dead center over both lanes, the yellow dashes of paint blinking beneath my wheels, both hands on the steering wheel, eyes scanning for oncoming traffic. At intervals, I would see the blip of an oncoming vehicle in the distance and my adrenaline would surge – perhaps it might be another massive semi-truck coming my way. Most often it was, and preparations would begin. Painstakingly I would drift to the right, keeping my wheels about 3 to 4 inches from the right ledge and associated death drop, knowing that the space between the semi’s extended rear-view mirror and my rear-view mirror would be less than 6 inches assuming he or she was hugging the tarmac to the right in the same way that I was.

The first few times I passed a truck in these narrow lanes I made the mistake of taking a quick glance to the left to make sure that they were in their lane. It was terrifying to see how close we came and even more terrifying was the cresting of the airflow as we passed, which caused the RV to shimmy and the back wheels to drift towards the ledge. The second time this happened my right rear tire dropped off the ledge and for a moment the RV started to skitter sideways as I yanked the steering wheel to the left. There was a moment of heavy vibration as the rear of the RV rode the ridge of the protruding asphalt. Fortunately, due to the dual wheels on the back axle, the other 3 rear wheels were able to overcome the cantilevered right tire and I was able to pull the RV straight after some heavy rocking and over-steering. Heart pounding, I realized that I could not account for what any opposing truck driver might do – that I had to trust them to do their job and that I had to focus solely on keeping the RV as far to the right as safely possible when passing oncoming trucks.

To their credit, these drivers were experts and kept themselves inches from their own death drop to their right and I stopped worrying about them, focusing solely on keeping my own space. Miles and hours passed without incident, and I grew confident in my skills and those of the other drivers…

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The inciting incident for the Baja trip was the advent of CO-19. As a keynote speaker, I became immediately and totally unemployed as of March 15, 2020. No one was bringing large groups inside conference rooms shoulder to shoulder to re-breathe each other’s air for hour-long talks. The initial decision to “hunker down, save money and wait until it was all over” didn’t sit well with me and a couple of months later I sold all my worldly belongings and, using the proceeds from 4 cars, 9 bikes, a motorcycle, 3 TV’s and a hundred other things, I purchased a giant, remodeled luxurious diesel RV complete with a full kitchen, marble lintels, and even a bathtub. My girlfriend grudgingly came along for the ride, but 5 months in, when a friend offered us their (very large) second home on a lake near Las Vegas indefinitely, she announced that she was done with the RV life.

The RV idled for a couple of months in between side trips to the Mojave Desert, Death Valley, the Grand Canyon, Sedona, and other proximate locations, but that old dream began brewing in my head. Baja Mexico…

What if, I thought, what if I could finally complete my 1200-mile dream trip down the Baja peninsula? I knew from my research that I could pretty much just pull off into any remote beach without worry, press the parking brake and stop for the night. Thanks to modern technology I could also enjoy most of the comforts of home (A/C, stove, microwave, stereo, TV, hot water, toilet, shower etc.) no matter how remote the location. AND, I thought, I could leave the RV down near the San Jose Del Cabo airport in storage. My idea was that, if I do that, I could then fly down whenever I want, fire up the RV and park at any remote beach I wanted for free and have unlimited access to the kinds of sand, sun, waves and stars that Californians pay tens of millions of dollars for. This dream became the plan…

I began planning and packing up for the 12-day trip. I plotted several dozen potential stops along the way, mostly remote beaches, trusting that some would work out, some might not, and that others would serendipitously emerge. I studied maps for hours on end and Google-Earth’d most of the trip. I resolved to enter Mexico just East of Tijuana at Otay Mesa, visit Tecate for a meal and then head to wine country in Valle d’Guadalupe for a day or two. After that I planned to spend a night or two at an actual campground near Ensenada (to fill up water and empty the tanks for the coming long trip). (*Note – until this day in the 10 months of owning and traveling in the RV it was the very first campground I had ever stayed in – I instead boondocked remotely or stayed in friend’s driveways, or winery fields thanks to harvesthosts.com). I then planned a zigzag down the peninsula to the best and most remote beaches and coves on both sides – San Felipe, Bahia de Gonzaga, Guerrero Negro, Bahia de Los Angeles, Mulege, Loreto, La Paz, and El Pescadero, before finally parking the RV walking distance from the airport in Los Cabos.

The drive to San Diego concerned me as the daytime temps in Las Vegas were 115 degrees or more but I left early enough that the outside temperature gauge never topped 104, and the Cummins diesel temperature gauge never moved, humming through the climbs and extreme temps without a worry. 6 hours later I had arrived at the border, and the first of many stressful moments.

I was attempting to park at a border lot near Tijuana in anticipation of a morning dental appointment at Trust Dental to get a crown for a cracked tooth. (I was quoted $1700 by my USA dentist, the Tijuana dentist quoted $400, and then let me know all I needed was to replace a filling for $150 – AND it was the cleanest, most professional dental office I have ever been to – I will never visit a US dentist again - thanks Deny!)

Regardless, I missed the turn into the main parking lot and, instead, making the next right found myself in a small, narrow restaurant parking lot with absolutely no ability to turn around to exit. Cars piled up behind me and I was losing my mind not knowing what to do. I pulled to the end of the small lot hoping to make a multi-point U-turn but it was not happening and so I had to slowly and painstakingly back up towards the narrow entrance blocking traffic and being a general nuisance. This took a good 10 minutes to go the 100 feet with me popping out of the RV to gauge distances about every 10 feet (my back up camera was on the fritz). Eventually two Mexican guys came to my rescue – one blocked traffic on the busy lane outside the lot and the other guided me as I slowly backed out. All told this was probably only 15 minutes, but I was sweating it.

Eventually I found a parking lot to leave the RV overnight and headed on foot to the border crossing.

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Shortly after yet another harrowing pass with a semi-truck, I decided to check my rear-view mirrors to make sure no one was trying to pass me. Cars were rare but occasionally they did appear behind me and due to my driving dead center between both lanes it made it impossible to pass.

This was the moment when it all went down.

In my left rearview mirror, to my astonishment, I saw something completely unexpected: a strange thin apparition flapping like a giant bat wing on the left side of the RV. As I looked at it again my hands froze on the wheel. Somehow the large access hatch to the engine compartment had swung open, its dual hydraulic lifts were keeping a stiff and sharp metal guillotine extended horizontally a full three feet into the oncoming lane, waving in the wind.

I immediately realized that that the narrow highway could not accommodate any oncoming traffic without catastrophe. If a truck were to pass it would smash through and likely peel off the entire rear end cap of the RV, potentially unseating the diesel engine it was protecting. Worse still would be if I passed an oncoming car. The horizontal guillotine metal of the flying bin was right about head-height in a car – about 40 inches off the ground and it might likely sever the head of any driver coming my way. This could and very likely might kill someone. My blood turned cold and then hot in panic. I cast about for a place to turn off or stop – but there was nothing. Traveling 60 miles an hour in a 30,000lb RV with an approach speed oncoming of 120 mph with oncoming traffic I was heading for near-certain disaster… I knew I had to stop immediately… but then what? I threw on the engine brake and quickly brought the giant RV to a shuddering halt.

What happened next was perhaps the most frightening 90 seconds of my adult life

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Pedestrian crossings into Mexico are notable for the swift and definitive change to all the stimuli coming to the senses. As I swung the steel combed doors of the pedestrian bridge to enter Tijuana I was nearly immediately met with a cacophony of different sounds, smells, and sights. After a brief and cursory examination of my passport by uninterested guards, I was in a whole new world. I could smell the carne asada, charcoal, and 100 other good and bad scents and I just smiled. I can remember thinking to myself, “I am home – I am free!”

I took an Uber to the hotel near my dentist's office and then ventured out for some amazing street tacos – al trumpo – “off the trumpet” – pork tacos marinated al pastor and then cut from a trumpet-shaped rotisserie similar to Greek shawarma. These came with a grilled slice of pineapple, and then a choice of a dozen freshly made toppings and salsas – salsa verde, salsa rojo, salsa chipotle, pico de gallo, onion, cilantro, aguacate (avocado), radish, tomatillo, guacamole, etc. I ordered only 2 tacos as I wanted to try the shrimp tacos across the street. I sat on the curb, dripping condiments onto the sidewalk watching the pace of this operation. The team was churning out $1 tacos at a rate of about 1 about every ten seconds – every motion syncopated, all hands producing a fresh product vastly better than anything in the USA. At six tacos a minute, 360 per hour for a 12-hour day, these 4 guys were taking in up to $3,000 - $4,000 a day. One of them told me they had been on this street corner since 1999 – 22 years.

I was so full I could not even stomach the delicious smelling fish and shrimp tacos across the street and instead ventured up Caesar’s restaurant to taste the original Caesar salad, invented there in 1924. Sadly, they were full for the evening, but offered to give me a carryout version. I was bummed as they mix and serve the dressing table-side in-house. Sure enough, though, it was the best Caesar salad of my life – the lettuce was garden-fresh, and the dressing and croutons made just minutes prior were perfect. Again and again on this trip I had the same thought, “how are we doing it so wrong in the USA? Why is the food here in Mexico so vastly superior – EVERY SINGLE TIME – and for less than ¼ of the price. Why don’t we use super-fresh produce and then cook everything to order on the spot?”

After my dental appointment the next morning, I recrossed the border at Tijuana in-order to, well, recross the border again at Otay Mesa just east of Tijuana where large vehicles like mine were accepted. I drove the 30 minutes to the new border where I faced another of those impenetrable bureaucracy things that can plague you in international travel. I had purchased Mexican insurance as well as a 6-month travel permit online prior to leaving for the trip. As I waited in the 30-minute line of traffic to cross the border I finally offered my paperwork to the border guard. He glanced at the insurance and then at the permit. In Spanish he asked, “bank receipt? I need to see bank receipt for proof of payment.” I tried to pull it off my phone, but he then said – please park there – you must go and prove payment and also be searched. (My Spanish is OK-ish – I can usually ascertain the gist of what is needed). So, I pulled aside and tried to find the receipt for my payment for the 6-month permit. After waiting in line, I was informed after several tries, “no, no, we need the actual receipt.” Well, I didn’t have it and as I didn’t have internet, I also could not pull it up. They sent me to another line. I explained in broken Spanish what I needed. They spent 15 minutes trying to look me up in their system to no avail. They sent me back to the first line – “you need to ask them for a permit form.” I went back to the first line. He asked me again if I had paid for it. He then left, talked to manager, and 10 minutes later he returned to suggest that I go back across the border to get internet in order to download proof of my ($30) payment. At some point I realized that all this back and forth was solely to keep me for paying the $30 again for a new permit. They were trying to do me a favor! Once I realized this, I asked them if I could just buy a new one there. They said yes, but it is expensive - $30!. I said NO PROBLEMA!” I went back to the other desk, paid for the new permit, went back to the first booth, gave them the permit which they signed and stamped and then returned to the RV where 2 heavily armed guards, one with a dog, were waiting for me. They were, as were all my encounters with the army / security forces - very pleasant, asking me where I was going and expressing astonishment that I’d be going so far away. They inspected my papers and then spent about 4 or 5 minutes with the dog searching the RV top to bottom including underneath. They never asked about drugs – only about guns and fresh produce. Eventually they left and ushered me on my way. I was in Mexico! Happy and Free!

One of the biggest barriers (and misconceptions) that causes many Americans to fear travel in Mexico is the “shakedown.” Usually this comes in the form of a policeman or security officer threatening extended incarceration, vehicle impoundment and large fines for nominal or even invented trespasses. If you read the forums, or just listen to friends who have had this experience, many vow to never go back to Mexico because of “the corruption.” Unfortunately, while these kinds of experiences can happen, they need not be nearly as traumatic as they seem. Mexico has its own rules and applying American logic to a situation that doesn’t follow our rules is a recipe for trauma. As I, fortunately, learned early on.

My first experience with a Mexican police shakedown was that same spring break trip to Ensenada my senior year in college. My roommate, a Mexican, Jay Dominguez, drove us down in his mother’s beater compact car across the border. For the better part of our visit our evening routines were the same, we’d have a couple of beers at sundown, and then drive the 2 miles into town to visit the bars and clubs. Probably our second night it happened – we made a wrong turn onto a one-way street. We quickly realized it, backed up and began to drive the other way when the police lights came flashing behind us.

Inside the car were no less than 3 open beer bottles – everyone but Jay the driver. We panicked trying to figure out how to hide them or get rid of them, placing them down between our feet so they wouldn’t spill or smell. Sam said, “we are screwed.” and I agreed. But Jay was nonplussed. “I’ve got this, watch and learn – this is just a process – just smile and be friendly – no need to worry.”

The cop came up with a smile and flashlight and immediately shined it on the open beer bottles at our feet. This was not his first rodeo with spring breakers. In Spanish and occasional English, he proceeded to say terrifying things… “$1000 fine, 3 days in jail, car impounded for 5 days.” Sam, Matt and I looked at each other sweating… Jay, however, was all smiles and questions.

“OK, Ok, take it easy. … Then in Spanish, “So, where are you from? How many kids do you have? Do you know why we are here? You know, we spend our money here which is good for the local economy.” He was so casual he might as well have been ordering from a drive-through.

The cop answered all these questions and asked Jay a bunch more about his family, how he got to the states etc. “Stanford” I heard the cop say, “Bueno!” He smiled at us. I was confused. Weren’t we being arrested? Why are we having story time?

At one point, the cop took Jay’s ID and walked away briefly. Jay, seeing our faces smiled and said, “Don’t worry – it is just a game – he doesn’t make much money, this is all like tips for the bartender. Trust me he has NO intention of taking us to the station. I’m shooting for $5 but we’ll see.”

The cop returned and he and Jay continued their banter. The cop, honestly, seemed a bit bored and was interested in all of us and Jay returned the curiosity. Occasionally money and threats returned to the conversation but each time the $’s got smaller, and the threats got lighter. Eventually, 20 minutes and an eternity later the cop and Jay stalled. $10 said the cop or I take you in. $5 says Jay offering a $5 bill. No, no, my wife will kill me says the cop. He walks away saying he’s going to have to take us in and call the station. Jay turns and smiles gleefully – “we are going to win!” and no kidding 30 seconds later the cop drops by, grabs the $5 bill and then says, “now boys, finish those cervezas or you might have to do this all again with one of my friends.” He laughed and even shook hands with Jay and returned to his car. Mexicans, and many other cultures, as I have learned, love a good negotiation and have respect for you even if you manage to gain the upper hand.

We drove away without incident, but I never forgot this lesson. Traveling in Mexico the 50+ times I have been down, I have “tipped” a police officer at least 15 times. The least I have paid is $10, and the most is $50 (I was in a hurry) but each of these experiences has been friendly, and I’ve actually grown to appreciate these underpaid officers and I don’t feel bad about it. Again, it is a separate set of rules…

Just prior to the terrifying incident on Highway 1, I had to cross a military border zone checkpoint to move from BCN to BCS. After a series of giant rope “topes” or speedbumps, I was waived aside by heavily armed military guards in desert camouflage fatigues. “Buscar” he said (search) and I waved him in. He walked slowly through the RV opening things. Eventually he came to the fridge and freezer. “Muchas Cervezas” he said indicating the 12 pack of Dos Equis purchased for just this occasion in the fridge (I no longer drink beer.). “Quieres? Hay mucho!” I said (do you want? There’s a lot.) “Si,” he replied and proceeded to stuff 2 beers into his fatigues. “Gracias, andiemo – adios!” and out he went. I was never worried.

In subsequent state and military stops two more beers were “borrowed”, and then in the funniest of all, when offered, the trooper at the final stop said “Si” and proceeded to grab a beer, walk to the back of the RV out of eyesight of the windshield, chug the beer in about 5 seconds and then he handed me the can which I carefully disposed of. After a belch and a fist-bump he was off.

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With the bin swinging open into the oncoming lane and no place to pull aside (keep in mind there are no places to pull off - no shoulder at all) there was only one option: to stop the RV in the middle of a narrow highway blocking the lane, park and exit to close and re-latch the bin. I threw on the engine brake, clicked on the hazard lights and came to a roaring stop in my lane near a rocky outcrop. I jumped up, ran around the length of the RV, only to see that the engine compartment could only be locked/unlocked with a special key that was back in a drawer back inside the RV. I ran back around, vaulted to the back to fumble around in the drawer for the key. In the meantime, I was terrified that there would be an over-overtaking truck coming from behind that would slam into back of the RV or an oncoming vehicle that would hit the open bin in the other lane. I was still beyond confounded as to how it could even be open in the first place considering it required a special key to unlock it. I found the key, ran back around the back of the RV and then attempted to close the bin, kneeling well into the lane of opposing traffic. After several attempts, the bin would not close. Upon closer inspection the metal of the front corner of the bin was bent under keeping it from closing: I had apparently already clipped an oncoming vehicle. To investigate further I had to sprawl flat on my back, partly under the RV, and well into the other lane of highway one on 145 degree superheated asphalt… It still wouldn’t latch. I didn’t know what to do. I was running out of time… inevitably a car or truck would be coming…

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Once across the border, I made my way to the lovely hill town of Tecate (also home of la Cerveza of the same name) where I walked the lovely shady park in el Centro and ate some excellent carne asada tacos. I then made my way down the undulating curves of Highway 3 to the Valle de Guadalupe – “La Ruta de Vina” – Mexico’s main wine-producing region. It was picturesque with the sun setting over rows of vines inter-mixed with massive boulders fallen from rocky cliffs. I arrived to the LA Cetto Winery (Mexico’s largest) just after dark and was waved through the entrance by a security guard (I had arranged, through HarvestHosts.com to stay there for the evening) and parked at the end of their long driveway next to the vineyards. I read for a while, answered a few emails, watched a movie, and then slept like the dead, a light breeze coming through the window.

I woke late the next morning, walked around the vines for a bit and then did a wine tasting before heading West to Ensenada. The wines were excellent, and I bought several bottles. During the tasting I learned that very few Mexican wines are exported to the USA and that approximately 90% are consumed within Mexico and most of those in Mexico City. To keep on some sort of schedule I had to skip the dozens of other vineyards nearby and head directly to the coast.

Ensenada was as lovely as I remembered it and the temps were cool (68 during the day, 55 at night!). At my one and only campground of the trip, I filled my freshwater tanks, dumped the gray and black tanks, and then parked along a beachside cliff over a pebble beach. In contrast just 2 hours away, San Felipe would be very hot (105+) and there I had to run my generator all night to keep the A/C running full blast. I never even plugged in in Ensenada. I explored the city by foot after a short Uber to town, hitting the marina and 2 of their most famous fish taco stands. The level of CO-19 precaution was consistent with other visits – to even enter the Marina (still outdoor) your temperature was taken, and you were given a squirt of disinfectant for your hands. Masks were mandatory in all restaurants – even outdoor – until seated, and in the marina area. After two sets of amazing tacos and a long walk, I returned to the RV at sunset and after the usual writing, reading and movie, fell asleep to the waves over the pebbles below with a cool breeze. (No Senior Frogs for me anymore.)

The drive to San Felipe was only a couple of hours, but the temperature jumped nearly 50 degrees in the first 30 minutes as I left the coast and climbed the spine dividing the Pacific and Ensenada from the east coast and the Sea of Cortez. Arriving, I parked right at the beach under a thatched lean-to next to a large palapa restaurant. I guess this might count as a campground as well, though it was just a few stalls and mostly cars.

I used my ebike to explore the town and other potential future campsites which became, along with my OneWheel, my go-to for finding the perfect parking and camping spots. However, this day’s exploration led to a slightly scary moment. As I headed north along the coast on the bike, a pack of dogs (7 or 8?) came racing out of nowhere biting at my legs and heels. I punched the ebike up to full throttle and stomped on the pedals and lost a flip flop in the process, barely escaping. Meanwhile, there was a young couple with a baby walking towards me observing the whole thing who yelled at the dogs to no avail. After resting a bit, I returned to try and retrieve my flip-flop. As I crested the hill to the valley of the dogs, the young man yelled to me. “Despacio! Caminar! Yo tengo tu zapato!” (slow, walk, I have your shoe!) So, I got off the bike and walked. Suddenly the dogs had zero interest in me. I retrieved my shoe and remounted the bike at the top of the next hill. True to form I whistled and zoomed away “C’mon perros!” and the dogs gave chase but couldn’t catch me and I laughed all the way to town.

That evening I began a new tradition. I pulled out my inflatable stand-up paddleboard (SUP) and pumped it up. The sun was setting over the brilliant azure water of the tranquil Sea of Cortez. The temperature was a lovely 90 degrees and humid with a light breeze dappling the otherwise still water. In my dry bag, I packed my Bluetooth speaker, my phone, a cigar, a book, and some wine. Strapping these to the board, I paddled way out deep into the bay perhaps a ½ mile from the RV and miles and miles from any human being. Naked, (I had abandoned my shorts after leaving shore) I laid down on the board, opened the wine, lit the cigar, and rested my head on the speaker watching the sun set over the mountains, floating weightless on the deep blue green of the Sea of Cortez surrounded by music. I was brilliantly alone. Happy. The gentle murmur of the waves blended with the music and the sky faded to black as the panoply of stars emerged against the light white stripe of the milky way. I wondered how I was so lucky – to be alone in one of the last bastions of solitude, to have the comforts of home in the wildest of the wilds. I remembered an old quote from a favorite book. The author was sailing to Tahiti from Canada and was trapped in the doldrums for weeks. Someone asked him later, “weren’t you bored?” And his response was something like, “Well boredom comes from the inability to do things that need to be done – being stuck in a future that can’t be met by the present. In the doldrums, after I set the hooks and the sails and checked the horizon, there was simply nothing else to do. So… I sat, watched, and listened at peace, fully in the present. No, I was never bored.” I think for the first time I experienced this freedom from the tyranny of the future and the past. I was just really living. No future, no past, just the now.

The next day was a drive out of the remnants of civilization – to Bahia de Gonzaga where a long bumpy dirt and sand road seemed to be petering out. I was just about to give up on my way trying to find the beach when a pickup truck passing me stopped - so I did too. He asked where I was going, and I told him, “Playa la Gringa.” He said follow me and for 15 mins he waited for me as I rolled slowly along at 5mph along the dunes, grasses and bumps to a narrow isthmus of sand in a beautiful tranquil bay. “Manana,” he said, “I bring lobster or fish to you, Ok?” I was beyond excited to have a fresh catch. I parked, alone in the middle of nowhere – no one to be seen. I suspect I didn’t wear clothes… That evening was a reprise – out in the bay on the paddle board, music and stars, sand and sea. I did the same in the morning at sunrise. My schedule was now firmly driven by the sun.

Find the RV (It is in the far right of the photo)

The drive from Bahia Gonzaga to Guerrero Negro was long and narrow, but the nature and scenery was spectacular – a Dr. Seuss wonderland of oddly over-large trees, plants and cactuses unique to this part of the world – aptly named the “Valley of the Giants.” At one point I stopped long enough to take some pictures and considered spending the night, but I was hankering for some fish tacos and Guerrero Negro promised some of the best. I kept going and pulled into the dusty little town near dusk and parked out front of an old, abandoned casino. I wondered if I would have any trouble – either with the police or general safety. I realized later in the trip that my worries were unfounded - there are, essentially, no parking laws (I later parked in the Central square of the 2nd largest city in Baja for 2 nights without a worry) and that safety concerns are largely unfounded. I think the conversation that brought things into perspective for me was when I previously had told a street taco vendor I was from Chicago. “Oh! Chicago es muy peligroso no? Bang Bang!” (Chicago is very dangerous!). Mexicans think the USA is dangerous (and it is) and the other way around. The basic rule of thumb is always the same – never go to bad neighborhoods after dark, and particularly on a Friday or Saturday. I didn’t go to the barrios of La Paz at midnight on the Friday I spent there, and I’ve never been to the south side of Chicago except for a mid-day school visit.

After parking, I went over to Tacos al Meulle (Tony’s Tacos) and proceeded to have one of the best meals of my life: a fish taco and a shrimp taco (for $2.00 total). Fresh fish and shrimp caught that morning breaded and fried in front of me with a dozen salsas and toppings. I sat on a broken piece of concrete and lost myself in the flavor. I talked to Tony, the owner, who has been there in his truck on that corner for 25 years. Any worry about me parking in front of the old casino? “No, no one will bother you, this is a good community, we look out for each other and also for you – the tourist.”

I stayed in that evening as it was very windy and even a bit chilly and watched “My Neighbor Totoro” in the back of the RV, snuggled under the down comforter, worried about nothing.

The next day I drove the long slog to Bahia de California, a stressful narrow drive, and dropped down into one of the most beautiful bodies of water I have ever seen. I found another amazing campsite right on the beach, so close to the water, that my welcome mat was covered in shells in the morning. I swam a couple times during the heat of the day, and each evening I paddle boarded out with wine and music to watch the fireworks of the stars replace the sunset.

I would be remiss if I didn’t capture the lowlights of beach living along with the highlights: each of the dozen or more visits out to the beach meant tracking sand from my feet and paddleboard etc. into the RV. So… 4 or 5 times a day I would have to sweep the floors. Salty air meant dirty windows, so I washed them every few days to keep my view. And then there was the little matter of clothes – I managed to do a nearly 2-week trip along the beaches of Mexico with exactly one pair of shorts/swimsuit. By day 5 I realized that the funky smell in the RV was not my flip flops or feet – it was my nasty shorts. So, I had to start washing them each evening, leaving them to dry under the A/C.

I had to retrace my route from Bahia de California to Guerrero Negro (where I got some more shrimp and fish tacos) before tackling the long drive to Mulege – 8 hours in total on the narrowest and most dangerous roads of the entire journey. It was here that the incident occurred that nearly ended the trip.

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There I was, flat in my back halfway under the RV blocking traffic from behind, and halfway into the opposing lane. The asphalt was so hot it was scorching my skin through my clothes. The bent metal at the front of the bin was keeping the bin from latching properly. Pulling aggressively with my left hand on the right corner of the bin while keeping my right hand on the key in the lock I finally managed to engage the latch. Rolling out from under the RV, I scrambled up looking for traffic and ran back around and into the RV where I fired up the diesel and quickly accelerated away. It felt like an hour had passed but it was probably more like 90 seconds. My heart was thundering in my chest, but rather than relief as I hit cruising speed, the next 15 minutes were even worse. I was beyond frazzled. I worried that it would happen again before I found a place to pull aside. I worried that I was going too slow - and too fast. I had a vision of all the bins opening simultaneously. I just wanted to pull over but there was nowhere to stop. The totality of the event began to pull at my sanity…

I am used to taking personal risks. Even at the moment, I felt confident I could have scrambled out of the road in time to not be run over by a car or truck. However, the whole idea that my adventure could have seriously injured or killed someone else due to a malfunction of just one of the thousands of moving parts of the RV really had me at wit’s end. For the next 15 nail-biting minutes, I drove, hands shaking on the wheel, hazard lights on, looking for a place to pull over. Eyes were constantly on the rear-view mirror on red alert that the bin might yet again spring open. Finally, I found a rough pull-aside and dropped down the bumpy ramp towards a dusty garbage-strewn shoulder. As the RV tilted down and then straightened there was a sickening sound and associated shuddering - the rear end of the RV had bottomed out on the lip of the highway. Throwing it, again, into park, I ran around the back only to find total mayhem. The entire endcap of the RV had been nearly dislodged, torn metal and fiberglass twisting the ladder and exposing a part of the engine compartment. I was beyond consolation and my emotions overwhelmed me to the point that I was pretty much having the first full-on panic attack of my life.

I am very rarely physically afraid, but this was just too much. So much complexity, so few options, so far from anything or anyone… For a few moments I seriously considered abandoning the RV right there, hitching a ride, and flying home. For a good 40 minutes, I just couldn’t get myself to consider heading back out on that narrow road. I called my mom. She could sense that there was something in my voice. We talked for a while, and I told her what had happened. Her voice calmed me down as I walked her through the series of events. Eventually, I calmed down. I had known from the beginning that adventures like this are fraught with risk, and despite the adversity - no one was hurt and I was still safe to drive.

I hatched a plan and walked back outside the RV. I taped the bin shut with duct tape and then, back under the RV in the dirt, I investigated the pressure (not deadbolt) latching system. No key was necessary for this mechanism to turn – the key merely provided leverage. This was a huge design flaw that could have had major repercussions for me and others. I then taped the damaged end-cap in place as well which probably was not necessary but made me feel better. Eventually, I resumed my journey, though much later in the day than I had anticipated. Approaching Mulege at sunset the roads widened and my constant worry over the bin opening diminished. In a later phone call, my mother told me that this was the first time she had heard fear in my voice since I was a little kid.

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The rest of the journey unfolded without major incident and found me in some of the most magical spots yet. Mulege was the reward for all the trauma: I spent a magical two nights on the tip of a sandy isthmus with bays on both sides of the RV – feeling more like a yacht than a land vehicle. At low tide, it was possible to walk a narrow strip of beach to an adjacent rocky island. I rode the Onewheel back and forth about a mile to fantastic a seafood restaurant for meals, and paddle boarded at sunrise and sunset.

In Loreto, I had a lovely evening in parked by the beach but walking distance to the city center with its cathedrals and lights and a delectable dinner of flambéed lobster over wasabi mashed potatoes while listening to live music in the shadow of its tree-lined streets and old cathedrals.

My final two days and nights were spent parked just off the zocalo in La Paz (with some of the most amazing meals of the trip) and then in El Pescadero proximate to Cabo and the eventual resting place of the RV near the airport in San Jose del Cabo. On the final day of the trip, as I was driving to the airport storage lot, I was in a bit of a funk. The adventure of a lifetime was coming to a close, I was facing a return to civilization, COVID, masks, testing, lines, recirculated air, traffic, people and expensive not-so-great food.

I pulled the giant hulk of the RV into the storage lot, plugged in the solar charger, turned off the fridge/freezer and did my usual walk around to make sure everything was locked and sound. I then turned and began walking with my backpack to the airport just across the street. Suddenly the realization came: this is now my second home. I can come down here anytime I want. I can merely show up (after a 2.5-hour flight from Vegas) unplug and stow the solar charger, turn the key, and drive anywhere in the peninsula. I can park at any of the hundreds of deserted beaches for free. I smiled and jogged across the street to the airport for my COVID test.

My dream is now realized: I finally have a house on the beach. Actually I have a house on any / many beaches. I have been back down to Cabo 3 times already. The beach across from Los Arcos in Cabo San Lucas is a 38 minute drive and is secure as well. Come visit – just ask where first!

That Magical and Terrifying Trip from Las Vegas to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico... in a 38 Foot RV