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.

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

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

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

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

Touring the vineyards of the Valle de Guadeloupe.

Home for night one at Bellinghuasen Brewery.

October 23, 2023

Oct 9 - Oct 13 : Lone Pine to San Diego

October 23, 2023/ Christian Tuttle

We rolled into Lone Pine, CA, as the day was fading into evening. Dre, our host and old friend from guiding in Glacier National Park (and even older friend of Chelsea’s from her college years), had given us advice bordering on orders to arrive while there was still daylight. The views were not to be missed even if it meant delaying by a day. She certainly wasn’t wrong, and a mandatory detour around the semi-famous Whitney Portal Road took us along the stunning Tuttle Creek Road, an adventurous piece of single lane pavement both smooth and steep, like a roller coaster track, surrounded by fantastic polyps of granite, some oblong and smooth like giant dinosaur eggs. I am incredibly grateful for Dre’s advice and for the roadwork on Whitney Portal - we had reached the point in the trip that I would have been tempted to drive through late evening darkness to get to a known, safe driveway, or pass up a pretty, 20 minute detour for a direct, 3 minute route. The drive was worth it, and I hope we were able to capture even a fraction of that landscape’s majesty.

Dre gave us a tour of our camp spot, their new property, that evening, and we settled in under the stars. The next morning’s light really made the place shine, and we spent hours by the pool editing photos, stretching, writing, planning, and watching Dre’s two retired sled dogs teach her newly adopted dog how to act right. Gracie learned her place in the micro-pack and behaved herself, a welcome change to the anti-social behavior of her younger years. I’m not sure what gets credit for the change: her advancing age, the wisdom of the road, or the light dose of anxiety meds she gets with all her meals while we travel. Whatever it is, it’s working.

We spent a morning “exploding” part of the van, unpacking everything from a few of the compartments and repacking for maximum efficiency. The first aid kit got torn apart, labeled, and put back together. The duffle bag that hold our odds and ends got a similar treatment, as did part of my tool box, and some of the kitchen pantry. That evening we went for a walk with all four dogs leading all three humans through the desert vistas of the Shark Fin Trail and Movie Road. The Sierras put on a show, turning the sky bright pink with the last of the day’s light, and Chelsea’s back tolerated the two miles, barely. The next day she woke up feeling the activity, despite taking a slower pace and staying on top of her steroid regiment. Her back was responding to the drugs, but not as miraculously as we’d hoped.

The rest of the time was spent taking cool dips in a rad, retro, kidney-shaped pool (and feeling very California about it), making final prep lists for our stop in San Diego before the border crossing, cooking dinners, eating out, and generally carrying on like two late-thirties travelers hanging out at their friends’ beautiful property. Many thanks to Dre (and Caleb, but he was off on a work mission for the duration of our stay), a shining star of a host in what was fast becoming a long line of shining stars.

Mount Whitney and its friends greeted us on the drive in.

As far as driveway camping goes, this spot certainly didn’t disappoint!

A tour of the property with Dre and the dogs - walking down to the orchard!

Their orchard and garden basked in the evening light.

Basking in the glow of the sunset by the pool.

Dre and two of her three very good dogs.

A blissful evening in the fading light by the pool.

Exploding the van to reorganize and make a list of any last items we needed to add.

Afternoon cool-down in the kidney-shaped pool.

My walking abilities had progressed to at least not needing walking sticks to get around.

Our second night treated us to some beautiful views during an evening walk.

The backdrop of the Sierras were impressive.

Fen, front and center, finding his place in his new pack.

Dre admiring her new home’s beautiful landscape.

Rock formation that felt reminiscent of a picture I took years ago in Baja of a grey whale popping up from the depths to say hello.

The last of the cotton candy sky over the impressive landscape of the Alabama Hills.

After Lone Pine, we headed south to San Diego, with a quick stop in between to visit some over-landing legends and turn internet friends into real friends. We took a short detour off our route to meet Micheal and Yvonne of Wabi Sabi Overland fame, and see their latest box-on-a-Jeep creation. We had followed each other on the social medias years ago because we were both Pinzgauer owners, making us part of a small club of rational people owning irrational vehicles. Their vehicles and travels had kept us intrigued for years and we had to take the chance to meet them, as who knows when our paths would cross again. They graciously gave us a tour of their new projects, and we left their workshop mouths agape and imaginations spinning.

Christian gleefully exclaimed “Take a picture, this is SO cool!” as Michael opened the hangar doors.

From there, it was south to San Diego, returning to the familiar feeling of being far from home, but only just barely on the doorstep of the next chapter of adventure. Driving from nearly the northern border of the US to the southern border is an adventure in itself, as hopefully these last few posts has shown, but for us it felt once again like a chore ticked off a list. The US is amazing and full of invaluable overland opportunities, and it would take a lifetime to see even half of what this beautiful country has to offer, but if what you want is international adventure travel, then you must realize that you simply can’t get that at home, no matter where home is for you.

We arrived, slightly frazzled by the rush-hour traffic we’d found ourselves in, at the driveway of our friends Ricky and Ashley, in the heart of the San Diego suburbs. We had stayed here both before and after our last Baja trip six years ago! They had graciously put us up as we were panicking and preparing to adventure in Mexico the first time, when we really didn’t know what we were in for, and then once again after the trip when Chelsea was recovering from her back surgery in Ensenada.

We had much less to prepare this time around, as we had learned a thing or two since we were last there. We had a short shopping list, and we needed to make a bunch of copies of paperwork and arrange our documents, so we spent about half of a day doing that. We integrated ourselves into the family dynamic for a few days, gladly being part of the bustling household, a welcome respite from the road. I attempted a repair on my solar panel mount, realized the repair would have required fully removing part of the roof rack system, and instead swapped two little zip ties that I used as a trail fix for one big zip tie. With little holding us back, we did one last load of laundry and got ready to leave.

Our hosts made us a big Saturday morning breakfast for our send-off, complete with homemade thick-cut peppered bacon and fried eggs. On the morning of our departure a partial eclipse waved us goodbye. I can’t tell if I wanted that to be an omen of some sort; I’ve been contemplating how to fit it into the narrative for the past hour. Was it an unusual break of a natural cycle, mimicking our own? Was it a reminder that there are larger forces at play, and that the story of two middle-aged, washed-up adventurers, their old van, and their crazy dog just isn’t a big deal in the grand scheme of things? Who knows. Who cares. Let’s ride. Vámonos.

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

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

Oct 9 - Oct 13 : Lone Pine to San Diego

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