Day 10–11: 2026 Baja Expedition — Santa Ines - 64 miles

We left San Ignacio before 9 a.m., heading for Bahía de Santa Inés, only about 60 miles away. It still took us over two hours due to a treacherous mountain road as we approached the coast.

We followed a semi-truck that geared down into first gear, crawling along at about 5 mph as it navigated the narrow, steep, and winding descent. Other semis climbed past us going uphill, passing so close it felt like they could high-five each other if someone leaned out the passenger window. When traveling in a heavy vehicle, whether a semi or a motorhome, dropping into a lower gear and letting the engine brake the descent is essential. The scattered roadside memorials serve as a sobering reminder: respect the road, or it will demand it.

Imagine driving a 29-foot motorhome on a 200-story roller coaster, that’s what it feels like. And somehow, I always feel a little safer tucked in behind a big truck, even as a line of cars stacks up behind us.

We reached the coastal town of Santa Rosalía, an industrial stretch where businesses line the road along the sea. As we descended from the mountains, we passed a large landfill, plastic and paper caught in the wind, scattered along the highway less than half a mile from the ocean. A stark contrast to the beauty surrounding it.

Janice spotted a taquería on the left, and I pulled over. I walked up to a small window opening into a dim room. A young man with a long, polished black index fingernail took my order. I asked in Spanish for twelve tortillas, "doce tortillas, por favor. He seemed unsure, checked with someone inside, then returned with exactly twelve tortillas for 25 pesos.

Back in the motorhome, we continued on to Santa Inés.

The final stretch was a six-kilometer dusty, rocky road, the kind we love because it naturally filters out the less adventurous.

After about 20 minutes, we arrived at the campground. Since our last visit, they had built a new office with showers and restrooms.

I greeted Martín: “Es bueno estar de vuelta aquí. El nuevo edificio se ve muy bien.”

"It’s great to be back, the new building looks very good."

He smiled and thanked us for returning.

We asked to stay two nights: “Nos gustaría quedarnos dos noches, por favor.”

The price was the same as Paraisol Misional. 300 pesos per night (about $16.58).

There are about 15 sites along the beach, and eight were open. We chose one at the far end and quickly set up camp. Before this trip, we had always stayed at Santispac, which is beautiful but often crowded. This place feels like a hidden gem.

We took Tad down to the beach, he was ecstatic. He and I went swimming, then sat together in the shade, watching the rhythm of the sea.

Later, Janice read posts to me about the “No Kings March.” She made a sign out of cardboard and had me take a photo of her holding it with the ocean behind her. She posted it to Facebook, expressing how much she wished she could be in Roseburg with friends.

I went down to the beach and wrote “No Kings” in the sand, then filled it in with stones. Janice joined me, and together we finished it. I flew the drone and captured the moment.

As far as we know, we were the only protest in this quiet stretch of Baja.

The tide is already working to erase our message, but we will return, again and again, to remake it. To stand, in our own small way, for something larger than ourselves.

Back at camp, we relaxed under the awning. A few people walking by noticed our beach artwork.

One of them, Steve, a man in his early 70s from Bend, stopped to chat. He’s been staying at the campground since December, paying $300 a month. He’s familiar with many of the same places we’ve stayed, including Paraisol Misional and 4 Points RV Campground, our next destination.

Our conversation drifted briefly into politics. He mentioned that “Californians have ruined Bend” and that over 5,000 people had attended a “No Kings” protest, though he thought people could make better use of their time. I smiled, acknowledged his perspective, and gently steered the conversation back to Baja. He struck me as a kind man, just someone walking a different path of understanding.

We had a splendid dinner of burritos made with our newly acquired tortillas.

Later, we met two other couples, one from Dallas, TX (John and Susie), and the other from Seattle, WA, Eric and Karen). They invited us to their campfire that evening, and we were glad to discover they supported our beach protest. We spent the night sharing stories, laughter, and future travel dreams.

This morning, we watched the sun rise over the ocean, then went for a swim. We listened to podcasts, talked, and walked the beach collecting shells and stones.

John, generously shared his Starlink Wi-Fi, giving us a stronger connection to the outside world, though part of us didn’t really want it.

We watched brown pelicans diving for fish and spotted stingrays gliding just beneath the surface of the water.

Tomorrow, we head to 4 Points RV Campground in Ciudad Insurgentes, owned by our friends Juan and Pedro Pacinni, whom we met two years ago.

Closing Reflection

There’s something quietly powerful about this stretch of coast, where rugged mountains give way to open sea, where isolation becomes connection, and where even a simple message written in sand can carry meaning far beyond its brief existence. The tide may erase our words, but not the intention behind them. Like the road that brought us here, steep, winding, and uncertain, we continue forward with care, curiosity, and a steady belief that even small acts, shared in unlikely places, are part of something much larger unfolding.

Day 8–9: 2026 Baja Expedition — San Ignacio

We are thoroughly enjoying our three-night stay at Parisol Misional Campground.

The staff here are always working to improve the campground, and their care shows in every detail.

Yesterday, I took Tad for a hike up and over the lava mountain behind our motorhome while Janice and Comet made breakfast. The staff have spent hundreds of hours creating trails and building small aqueducts along the hillside. About halfway up, we came across the ruins of a large home, something built decades, perhaps even over a century ago.

Whenever I encounter a place like that, I find myself wondering about the lives that unfolded there… the stories, the laughter, the quiet moments. Memories once held within those walls, now roofless and slowly returning to the earth.

At the top of the mountain, we were rewarded with a spectacular view of the village of San Ignacio. The mission stands at its center, embraced by a sea of date palms, oasis of life in the middle of the desert.

Last night, Janice, Tad, and I enjoyed a wonderful meal in the village across from the town square. At least two other dogs joined us in the outdoor seating area. We ordered margaritas, and somewhere along the way we accidentally added chips (tapas) and guacamole to the order—a wonderful mistake. The fresh tapas, salsa, and guacamole were outstanding. We ordered a second round of margaritas, and we both agreed they seemed… a bit more generous with the tequila.

After dinner, we walked the two blocks back to the campground. Workers were still out, even near 8 p.m., building new sidewalks along both sides of the street—another sign of a community steadily investing in itself.

It was still warm in the motorhome, the temperature had reached nearly 100 degrees, so we sat outside and talked about the day. As I looked up through the palms, I thought I could see hundreds of stars shimmering between the leaves.

Then they began to twinkle… and move. For a moment, I wondered if we were witnessing some great cosmic transformation, or if perhaps that last margarita had contained something a bit more “magical.”

O

I shared my observation with my wife—the scientist, and she gently suggested that what I was seeing was moonlight reflecting off the palm leaves. As my vision adjusted, I realized she was absolutely right. Were it not for her steady presence, I might very well have torn off my clothes and run through the campground proclaiming the end of the universe!

Even so, it was a remarkable moment—one that reminded me how thin the veil can be between perception, imagination, and reality.

Now it is Friday, and several more campers perhaps fifteen, have joined us. Despite the mix of people, dogs, cats, and children, the atmosphere remains incredibly calm and respectful. It is quiet, save for distant Mexican music drifting through the evening air and the gentle wind moving through the palms. It is… mesmerizing.

This morning and much of the afternoon were spent working on Umpqua Watersheds projects, Zoom meetings, staff coordination, and drafting comments on federal agency actions. To be completely transparent, I also took a well-earned 64-minute nap while Janice continued working diligently. I eventually rose and completed my comments opposing the Trump administration’s proposal to prohibit nonprofits receiving government funding from engaging in DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion) efforts. It is a troubling proposal, one that carries many shades of darkness, and I was grateful to lend my voice in opposition on behalf of Umpqua Watersheds.

It has been another beautiful day in paradise.

Tomorrow, we continue our slow and intentional journey south toward our ultimate destination: Cabo Pulmo National Park.

Closing Reflection

There is something quietly profound about this place, where desert meets oasis, where history lingers in abandoned walls, and where moonlight can momentarily become a universe in motion. Here, between work and wandering, conversation and stillness, we are reminded that life is not just about reaching a destination… but about noticing the wonder along the way.

2026 Baja Expedition – 234 MilesWednesday, March 25

We left Camp Beluga with 1/3 of a tank of gas, knowing the next station was somewhere before our planned free campsite north of Guerrero Negro. Unfortunately, we forgot to plug the destination into Google Maps before our hour of paid internet ran out.

No problem… we’ve got this.

As we drove, we kept thinking the gas station was just around the next bend, all while watching the needle slip slowly below a quarter tank. Thanks to my excellent driving, and keeping it under 50 mph (80 kph), we made it to what felt like the only gas station within a light year of Camp Beluga.

Even better, we had cell reception.

Janice, with a sparkle in her eye, asked, “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

Confident that my effervescent positivity could handle anything, I chose the bad news.

“We missed our campsite 20 miles ago.”

“And the good news?”

“We’re 15 minutes closer to San Ignacio!”

After heroically avoiding head-on collisions with semitrucks and athletically dodging potholes, without triggering the passenger-side alarm, I bravely suggested we take a break and then continue on to San Ignacio. The gas station, after all, was the major tourist attraction in the middle of the desert.

I filled up the tank and found myself in a playful tug-of-war with the attendant over the squeegee. He clearly wanted to wash the windows (and earn his tip), but I was determined to do it myself. Suddenly, a woman, who I assumed was his boss, came out and scolded him for letting the gringo out of the carro and then losing a match of keep-away with the magical squeegee.

He looked sheepish as he finished pumping the gas.

Feeling a bit sorry for him—and with a yard of pesos in my wallet, I tipped him 20 pesos for his trouble (don’t tell Janice).

Since I had skillfully left my Costco card in a Mexican restaurant in Red Bluff, I handed him Janice’s card. We use it, of course, so she can do cartwheels at the Costco customer service counter when we get our annual rebate.

He wasn’t quite sure how to process the transaction and asked his boss for help. She instructed him to have me place the card in a curved metal tray beneath a thick glass window. I did, and she handed me a receipt, about a foot long, to sign, presumably to accommodate all the digits required for our several-thousand-peso fill-up.

Transaction complete.

Next, I wandered over to what I thought was a taquería to buy tortillas so we could make our own burritos and save money, especially after spending billions of extra pesos funding global misadventures and golden monuments.

Unfortunately, no tortillas.

So naturally, I bought four burritos.

In what I can only describe as perfect Spanish, I ordered:

“Cuatro burritos con pollo… por favor.”

As she cooked, a man in a highway vest launched into a rapid-fire Spanish conversation with her, animated, intense, and far beyond my comprehension. She listened calmly, as if this was just another Tuesday at the grill, while Juan seemed deeply invested in the philosophical complexities of refried beans.

Meanwhile, I smiled and nodded at what felt like appropriate moments, all while quietly wondering how many thousands of pesos these burritos were going to cost, and whether we might need to mortgage the motorhome.

Eventually, Juan wandered off.

The mujer simpática (kind woman) finished my order.

Total cost: 200 pesos (about $11.50 USD).

The deal of the century.

I thanked her profusely, in Spanish and and returned to the motorhome triumphant. The burritos were fantastic… though I forgot to add queso.

Back on the road, we spent another couple of hours on what I had previously described as the “highway to hell.”

Fortunately, the government (muchas gracias, Juan) had done significant repair work. Between that and my near-perfect driving, it turned into a relatively smooth journey, no oxygen masks dropped down from the ceiling.

About an hour past Guerrero Negro, we stopped in a small town where Janice wisely suggested we exchange some dollars, just in case her Costco Visa didn’t work later.

Inside a bank tucked into the back of what looked like a Best Buy-style store, a kind woman greeted me. I explained I wanted to exchange $500 USD. She informed me of the daily limit was $300 and directed me to remove my hat and present my passport at the window.

The young woman behind the glass spoke no English, but through a combination of Spanish, gestures, and sheer determination, I successfully communicated my request.

At one point, she asked me "De que trabajas?"  I told her, “I’m retired,” in English, then quickly corrected myself with the help of my translation app:

“Estoy jubilado.”

She smiled.

After carefully inspecting my bills (one of which was stamped “track me.com”) that I had to repace, she handed me a glorious stack of pesos. I tucked them safely into my now-bulging wallet and thanked both women warmly.

We arrived in San Ignacio around 5:30, about five hours after leaving Camp Beluga.

The campground was even more beautiful than we remembered: hundreds of date palms, flowers, and plants everywhere. Our favorite site, backed up against a lava field mountain, was waiting for us.

We set up camp and I went to pay. Andrés, the owner’s son, was cleaning near the restrooms. He recognized me immediately and warmly welcomed me back.

I spoke in Spanish. He replied in English.

It was good to see my friend again.

He directed me to his father near the gate, where I paid for three nights and told him, in Spanish, how wonderful it was to return to beautiful Paraiso Misional.

Closing Reflection

San Ignacio is more than a destination, it is a feeling. An immersion into a slower rhythm of life, where kindness, simplicity, and quiet resilience shape each day. Here, among the date palms and desert light, we are reminded that abundance is not measured in possessions, but in connection, to place, to people, and to the shared humanity that transcends borders.

Day 6: 2026 Baja Expedition – La Beluga, San Luis Gonzaga (3/24)

Today was an off day after driving over 1,300 miles in the previous five days. We slept until 7:30, late for us, though the caretaker’s dogs were barking near the motorhome at 4:30 this morning. Tad was so good. He gave a low growl and a quiet “woof,” but didn’t lose his mind over the intruders like many dogs would.

Although we missed the sunrise over the ocean, we awakened to an absolutely perfect day on San Luis Gonzaga Bay. After breakfast, we sipped our coffee and watched birds gliding over the water. The same dogs that woke us earlier came by to make amends. The larger one, a mix that looked like a Great Pyrenees and Golden Retriever, was very friendly. The Australian cattle dog was friendly too, though a bit snippy with Tad.

We went for a long walk along the beach, searching for rocks and shells, and found plenty. We walked out to what must have once been someone’s dream home, now in ruins. About 30 years ago, a storm shifted the river channel, undercutting the foundation. The house, once perched above the beach with expansive windows and a beautiful deck overlooking the ocean, now sits abandoned, a complete loss.

We had visited the ruins last year, and Tad and I climbed up again this year. It’s hard not to feel the weight of it, how something so carefully built can be taken back so quickly.

Back at camp, we bought two hours of internet time and caught up on emails, updated the blog, and checked the news.

 Paying for internet by the hour is a strange experience, you have to let your time expire before you can add more. Add in some translation challenges around technical jargon, and the whole process became a bit comical.

We met Janice's brother Marty's doppelganger, from British Columbia! His name is Richard and we had a nice conversation with him about traveling. 

While we sat there using up our precious minutes online, we noticed Jacqueline searching the shallow water at low tide. After a while, we realized she was hunting for octopus. She found three small ones, cleaned them right there in the surf, and tossed the remains to the gulls.

We had octopus (pulpo) last year in Cabo Pulmo. Randy Webb bought it, and I followed an online recipe. It was okay, but Janice and I both felt a bit uneasy eating it, knowing how intelligent these creatures are.

We spent time watching brown pelicans and gulls diving for fish just offshore. It was incredible to see them working together, plunging into the water in tight formation.

I started writing this yesterday, Tuesday 3/24, but I’m finishing it now. It’s nearly 2 a.m., and Comet isn’t feeling well. She has episodes like this at home. Yesterday she seemed fine on her walk with Janice, though she spent most of the day in her carrier, tucked away in the storage compartment.

Comet has some renal failure. We feed her special food and give her an appetite enhancer, Janice applies a paste to her ear. Hopefully, she’ll feel better in the morning. She’s 16 now, and as with all our aging companions who have passed; Lincoln (2026), Oreo (2021), Eclipse (2020) we will walk with her to the end, doing everything we can to give her comfort, care, and quality of life.

Our pets give us so much love and companionship. We are deeply grateful for our time with them, and for the memories Janice and I share.

I want to share the story of Rafael Diez, our friend who owns Campo Beluga.

We met Rafael on our first Baja trip in 2024. We were looking for a place to stay, and Ken Carloni had mentioned this spot from his Baja botany trips with Umpqua Community College.

We made the slow journey down the wagon road to Campo Beluga, creeping along like a true wagon train. When we arrived, Rafael told us the cost was 300 pesos, cash only. We only had 150. He smiled and said that was fine, we could pay him the rest next time.

The next morning, he invited us into his small two-room home. He offered us water and food and shared stories from his life.

He bought Campo Beluga in the 1970s. He holds dual U.S./Mexico citizenship and worked as a lineman for AT&T. He had a home in San Diego and was married to a woman who is now a judge. Though divorced, they remain best friends.

He laughed as he told us he married Jacqueline, half his age, because he let his “little head” do the thinking.

Rafael loves to talk, and it felt like he needed companionship. We were the only ones at camp. He told us about his cancer, how the treatment made him feel worse, and how his ex-wife wanted him to continue. He spoke about his daughter in Oklahoma, who wants him to move there so she can care for him. He said he’s trying to sell Campo Beluga for $3 million, he was close once, but the deal fell through. It was clear he loves this place deeply and doesn’t want to leave the ocean.

When we left in April 2024, we were sad to say goodbye. We told him we would return.

When we came back in 2025, he was happy to see us. We paid the 150 pesos we owed, though he didn’t want to take it. He had added a couple more dogs, but it was clear the cancer was slowing him down.

He told us stories of San Luis Gonzaga when it was more of a frontier outpost. He talked about Papa Fernandez to the north, a place for food and beer and about a doctor who died after a plane crash on the beach airstrip. He was there when it happened and tried to help.

He also told a story from his AT&T days. He was flown to a classified job near Dallas, where they wanted him to string lines over a nuclear facility. He refused due to the danger. When they threatened to fire him, he came up with an idea, shoot the line over using an arrow. They let him try. It worked. He kept his job.

Rafael believes his cancer may be linked to PCB exposure during his years as a lineman.

Last year, when we left, we invited him to visit us in Oregon. I gave him my card and told him to call anytime. We hugged him goodbye and promised we’d return.

We are sad he isn’t here this time. It’s not the same without him. I’ll try to get his number from Jacqueline tomorrow.

It’s now 3 a.m. Comet has settled into sleep in the cab. She doesn’t like to be jostled when she’s not feeling well.

I hope she feels better in the morning.

As the tide moves in and out under a sky full of unseen stars, I am reminded that everything here, this bay, the ruins on the bluff, Rafael’s stories, and the lives of the animals we love, is part of a larger rhythm we are only beginning to understand. We arrive, we build, we connect, and in time, we let go. Yet nothing is truly lost. It all becomes part of the story, the living memory of this place and of us. Tonight, in the stillness between worry and hope, I feel both the fragility and the beauty of it all. And with gratitude, we choose to simply be present, for this moment, for this journey, and for the love that carries us through it.

Day 5: 2026 Baja Expedition – La Beluga, San Luis Gonzaga (250 miles)

We woke up before 6:30. Janice got up, started the coffee, and took Tad out. He absolutely loves being on the road, mostly because he gets lots of walks. I had taken him out the night before for a nice stroll around Bel Cielo. Comet is loving her wanderings, too, and both of our “fur kids” seem to be enjoying the journey so far.

Before crossing the border, we made a quick stop at Grocery Outlet for toilet paper and toothpaste, just covering all our bases. 😉

We filled up at Costco, and the $5.29 per gallon price tag was sobering. Assuming 15–20 fill-ups of our 50-gallon tank, it’s going to add up quickly, my “scientific calculations” put it somewhere between $500.64 and $650.22 extra for fuel. Enough said on that topic!

After a sanidump, we headed for the border, just 20 minutes from Bel Cielo. The crossing was seamless. There is only one car ahead of us at the Mexicali East station. We rolled up to the scanners, stopped briefly, and were then directed to the right for inspection.

Three men in military uniforms, with very large guns approached the motorhome and directed me to step outside. I told them, “Tenemos un perro amigable y un gato pequeño” (a friendly dog and a small cat). They asked us to take Tad outside while they brought in a shepherd-looking dog to sniff for contraband.

The guards smiled at Tad, and before long we were cleared and directed to a nearby parking lot to get our FMMs and have our passports stamped.

The FMM is required if you’re staying in Mexico more than a week. A young woman, probably in her early 30s, came out to help us. She was a bit terse at first and asked if we spoke Spanish. I replied, “Un poco.”

Even though I’ve been studying Spanish for a few years and know thousands of words, I still freeze up when we arrive in Baja. I worry I’ll mix up my words and accidentally say something ridiculous, like asking to borrow someone’s underwear, or that the handful of Spanish curse words I know will suddenly spill out like loose change from my pocket.

So I go slow at first… building confidence with simple phrases.

As we worked through the forms, she softened. We sometimes worry that people here might associate us with the “Idiot-in-Chief” and the broader tone of politics back home. We feel embarrassed by how people of color are treated. And yet, time and again, we are met with kindness, courtesy, and genuine helpfulness.

With our FMMs in hand, we hit the road south on Highway 5, one of the three main arteries of the Baja Peninsula.

It’s always a little surreal at first, being in a different country, with new measurements, unfamiliar traffic rhythms, a different language and culture. A real “Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz” moment. But this being our third year, it felt more like returning than arriving.

We cruised along at 40–50 mph on a narrow, shoulder-less two-lane highway. Long stretches run straight for miles, but the road is rough, potholes, warped pavement, and sections that rock the motorhome side to side like a boat on choppy water. You have to stay alert and take it slow through the rough patches.

For the first couple of hours, we had good cell reception. Janice played podcasts, read emails and Facebook posts, or we listened to music. We talked about everything, politics, memories, and the journey ahead. Driving for hours can be tiring, but there’s also something deeply relaxing about it. We stopped every couple of hours to stretch and take a break.

As we approached San Luis Gonzaga, we climbed a mountain range with stunning views of the Sea of Cortez, what locals call the Gulf of California. Along the climb and descent are small roadside shrines marking where lives have been lost. I drove carefully, not wanting to check into one of those little “Hotel Californias”, where you can check in, but never check out.

We reached the dirt road to Campo Beluga, rough, washboarded, full of loose rocks and potholes. It took us about 20 minutes to travel the final mile.

We arrived at 4:30. We pulled into our favorite spot—#8.

A woman in her mid-30s came out to greet us. She didn’t speak English, and I told her we’d like to stay two nights. She said it would be 400 pesos per night (about $20). Internet is also available for a charge of 50 pesos ($2.50) per hour. Gulp...

 I asked if our friend Rafael, the owner, was around. She told me he was in the hospital in San Diego undergoing cancer treatment. She introduced herself as Jacqueline, his wife.

Rafael had mentioned before that his wife was much younger, and she appeared to be about half his age. No judgment, just life unfolding in its many forms. I told her we were sorry to hear about Rafael and that we had been friends with him for three years.

We set out the patio mat in the sand next to the palapa. It was a perfect evening, low 80s, a gentle breeze, and a beautiful blue ocean nearing high tide.

We were the only campers when we arrived. Later, a couple from British Columbia showed up, along with a Jeep pulling a small boat and tent.

Tad and Comet joined us outside as we settled in, soaking in Baja. It was perfect.

We had leftover hotdish and a couple of pre-made margaritas, played a game of Rummikub and three rounds of Spite and Malice, and then took a quiet walk on the beach with Tad as the day faded into night. 

As the light softened over the Sea of Cortez and the rhythm of the waves settled into the evening, I was reminded why we make this journey. It’s not just about the miles traveled, but the moments that invite us to slow down, to reconnect, with each other, with the land and sea, and with something deeper within ourselves. In a world that often feels divided and hurried, Baja offers a gentle reminder that kindness, simplicity, and presence still guide the way. And here, under an open sky with grateful hearts, we find our way back to what matters most.

Day 4: Bel Cielo Farms, Brawley, CA 180 miles

Day 4 – Bel Cielo Farms, Brawley, CA

It was a slower day for us today, as we wanted to rest up a bit before heading across the border tomorrow. It only took us about 3 ½ hours to get to Brawley. Along the way, we stopped at a Grocery Outlet to pick up a few supplies.

We arrived at our Harvest Host, Bel Cielo Farms, and quickly got set up. It was already 95 degrees when we pulled in, with the high expected to reach around 100.

Tad and Comet enjoyed wandering  and exploring their new surroundings.

 Eventually, the heat caught up with all of us, and we gave in to a well-earned siesta. Janice, Tad, and Comet retreated into the motorhome while I stretched out on the dog bed and let the afternoon drift by.

Later in the day, I did my annual Fantasy Baseball draft for the upcoming season.

 An hour before the draft, the system randomly assigns the draft order for the 10 teams. Last year, I drew the 10th pick, but this year, I landed the first pick. It all evens out, though, because it’s a “snake” draft, so the 10th pick also gets the 11th, and this year, I had picks 1, 21, and 22, and so on.

I’ve loved following baseball since I was a kid, playing the game and watching and listening to it with my Dad and Grandpa.

I’ve been in the same fantasy league for years now, with dear friends and my son Nick. It’s always fun competing together, exchanging banter, and sharing in the ups and downs of the season.

I often think about listening to St. Louis Cardinals games on the radio with my Grandpa at the Lake of the Ozarks in Missouri. He called me his “sidekick.” We fished for catfish using trotlines in the lake,catching shad with a throw net, baiting the lines, and cleaning the fish together. I would not be the same person I am today without the love and care of my grandparents.

I also have fond memories of listening to, watching, and attending Minnesota Twins games with my Dad. He was an avid Twins fan, and it was nearly impossible to pull him away from a game. I remember my sister Lynn and me once setting his watch ahead by 40 minutes so we wouldn’t be late for a movie at the theater.

During the Twins’ championship years of 1987 and 1991, we had so much fun watching the games together. Baseball has been a special and enduring part of my life.