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.
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