A vibe sort of similar to that of a small European village. The intenseness of the main Baja highway narrows and curves down to sea level where Mulege’s charm flushes over us. Air sifting its way through the crack in my window has a tickle of moisture and a heavy floral scent. Did it just rain? At first glance, my eyes are drawn to the perfectly saturated colours slapped onto the tiny buildings. Large, almost towering plants of all varieties guard the homes and shops with their lives. Providing shade and comfort are the palms. Fed by the mighty river that owns the town, the palm trees are abundant and healthy as can be. The Chinook creeps through town on tiptoes as we fall for the quaintness of it all. Everyone we’ve come across is wearing their smile like a tattoo and we can see why.

  As soon as we’ve accomplished laundry duty, it is time to find camp. Matthew scours google earth and see’s some potential on the water. The road we’ve chosen to take seems to be nestled in between a residential area which gives us a new perspective on the somewhat Americanized neighborhood. Remembering how identical the housing developments look back home, it is refreshing to see rounded corners, abstract colours and personalities splattered all over.

  As the homes disappear behind us, we see a small dirt road aiming towards the ocean. We try not to keep our hopes too high for epic camp spots, but sometimes we just can’t help it. And just like that, similar to the moment you glance at the night sky and witness a perfect shooting star, a pod of dolphins project themselves as high as they can out of the water making sure we don’t miss them.

  Our mouths wide open pair perfectly with children claps and wiggly toes. We have been told of the dolphins, but never expected to be front row to the show. We didn’t even see the ticket booth on the way in. To add to the elation of where we are, it seems we have this cove all to ourselves. Once the chinook finds its seat for the night, the calm of the late afternoon ocean calls us. We listen, secretly hoping the dolphins will join us.

  The evening consisted of exploring the beach for treasures, which has rapidly become very therapeutic for me. Finding the remains of a life so different from that of a human fascinates me. All the while, Matthew enjoys the stillness from inside our home. While enjoying yet another taco feast, we watch two fishermen disappear into the sunset on a small dinghy. Their arrival back is sometime around midnight. Thankfully, it looks like the moon helped show them the way. Goodnight moon.

Bahia De Concepcion

  When our Mulege cups were full, especially after a taste of the local brewery, we giggled our way down the highway. And as the light began to change, the coastal route takes us along some of the most famous coves in Baja. The beer definitely assisted in this moment, but the beaches are truly screensaver worthy. Each cove shaped like a tea cup painted blue and half filled with chai latte. Unfortunately, our tires remain on the tarmac as our wallets tell us to keep searching for something a little cheaper.

  The sun strides its way behind the mountains beside us and focus our eyes towards the water. Time is ticking while we search for that hidden dirt road you’d miss if you were driving too quickly. Brake test! The chinook’s nose dives toward the ground and my chest wraps around the seatbelt. Matthew spots one, and makes sure not to miss it. Back and forth the camper rocks as we make our way down the trail.

  Stumbling upon free camping like this is what Baja is all about. You just have to rustle up the patience, and strengthen that manifestation muscle. 

How big is that fuel tank?

  This beach is extra hard to leave, but we know we must press on. After an extremely fun beach workout, we make our way down the inlet to then cross to the other side and find another beach recommended to us. As soon as the Chinook hits dirt again though, an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach starts yelling through a megaphone. Not necessarily a dangerous feeling, more like a being called somewhere else feeling. Thankfully, Matthew doesn’t fight the laundry machine going on inside me, so we decide to push to Loreto.

  It is warm,  but the highway isn’t busy, and there are no major passes between us and Loreto. The distance is roughly 55 kilometres. Out of nowhere, Matthew looks down at the trip count. He proceeds to ask me with a hint of lingering fear when we last filled the gas tank. I find the number, and put both in the calculator. 466 miles. Miles, because our Chinook is an American vehicle. Up until this point, we have been filling up at 400 miles as a safety blanket. ( Without a fuel gauge, we air on the side of caution. )

  With this knowledge, and the confidence that the truck could go 500 miles, we send the prayers up rolled cautiously down the highway. A quiet, suspenseful drive I’d quickly relieved with sighs and high fives when we spot a town up ahead.  Having this large of a fuel tank is great until you start to believe your truck runs on sunlight. A close call, and we have to laugh at the gas station when we see we’ve gone around 760 kilometres. Thinking back to my intuition about not going further to the beach sort of makes sense now.