(This is Chapter Five in my “Thoughts on Van Life” series of posts, in which I discuss that every upside of van living carries a defined downside. Check out Chapter One , Chapter Two , Chapter Three, and Chapter Four if you haven’t already).
When you live in a van: you’re free, but also feral.
Upside– You are Free to Do Whatever You Want
There’s a part of day-to-day living in a home, community, or neighborhood that has social and societal obligations irrevocably tied to it. Whether renting or owning, there’s stuff that needs to be done.
If you want a lawn, decorum says to mow it and water it. If you want friends, you ought to go to their birthday gatherings. If you want to keep the power on, you better pay the bills.
While living in a van, one is not entirely released from all these obligations, but most of them give way. Nobody is expecting anything of you, polite society does not require anything of you, there’s no dinner parties or events to RSVP to— so all that’s left is one question: “What do I want to do today?”
For some people, this might be a paralyzing wide-openness— but for others, it might feel like total freedom. I think initially for me, it felt like the latter (though interestingly, the longer I stayed in the van, it began to feel like the former. But that’s another story for another day).
‘Freedom’— a word that can now feel like a political identifier, really means: the ability to wander anywhere, anytime, without constraints.
Part of what provides that feeling of being free in the van? Having all the stuff you need to survive day-to-day—and to counter any emergency— at-hand, all the time. As I covered in a previous post, part of feeling the security to wander is knowing one has a safe bed and ample food for any journey.
But another component of that freedom comes from casting off the necessities of daily life that can end up eating hours or days of one’s time. Little things: like weeding the garden, getting the mail, making this month’s bookclub, seeing your in-laws, going to a kid’s soccer game, or finally catching up with that friend you have been meaning to see over coffee— all of those obligations are null and void when it is just yourself behind a steering wheel.
I wasn’t entirely cut off from people. No way. I still had meetings and work. I still caught up with friends via phone and texted folks every day— this was necessary for my survival— but that is not the same as running all over town to get to meetings or bridge club or your nephew’s baseball game, either.
Pointing the van exactly where YOU want to go in a moment? That is a pretty freeing feeling. I’m not sure there’s any equivalent in a more rooted life to feeling the absolute openness of every single day living on wheels.
Downside— That freedom can begin to get feral over time
In the past, I’d gone nearly a week without a shower in the van.
Sometimes, I looked in the mirror for the first time in weeks and seen my eyebrows had practically merged into one.
And, at the risk of TMI, shaving my legs in a freezing campground shower that requires a new token to be inserted every 2 minutes to keep the water flowing? No thanks. I just let the hair grow most of the time, rather than dealing with that noise.
When you’re released from social and societal obligations, and you’re all on your own— grooming kinda goes out the window. There’s less reason to put effort into that, and no real payoff to it. Of course, you might be thinking— ‘holy cow, I could never let myself go like that’— buuuuuuut, I don’t think you know that for sure.
Impressing the random guys at the gas station or the Boomer couple at the campsite down the lane wasn’t a goal of mine, and so I focused outward rather than inward. I spent my limited mental capacity thinking of where I’d go next, what hike I’d do next, where I’d eat next, and of course— where I’d sleep next, rather than fussing about my appearance.
Beyond just the aesthetics— since Mac wasn’t much of a conversationalist— I also could retreat pretty far into myself. Small-talk-chit-chat with strangers made up the majority of my interactions for long stretches, months even– which is fine and well, but… I began to just get… quiet.
Which, if you know me, is rare for this VERY BIG extrovert.
When I say I felt free in the van— that’s true— but I also felt feral. Unconnected from daily culture and society and habits. Living outside 90% of the time. Grooming as little as possible. Seeing very few people. I was reading the news and keeping up with events, but I wasn’t being a “person” the way the culture requires in daily life when stationary.
I felt my social skills waning a bit. I’d forget to say “thank you” to clerks at checkouts, or forget to actually check to see if my shirt was inside out and backwards. I didn’t care if my socks matched.
At-times, I felt disheveled on the outside and the inside. Like my social skills were declining as I retreated into myself further.
I’m sure this is not an issue for people who caravan frequently with others, or people who travel with a partner or friend group— but in the end, it had been a year since Moon had left the van, and despite plenty of visits to the houses of friends and family, I felt my capability eroding in the “civilized human being” department.
This feeling is hard to put into words— I’m not sure I can convey it. But the disconnection to regular, societal life— and the people who lived within it— was very real to me.
I felt free, and unconstrained— but without those constraints of social culture and the people who make it up, I lost my balance a bit. I felt a little like Tom Hanks in that awful movie in which he’s stuck on a desert island alone for so long, he befriends his volleyball and talks to it.
My ‘volleyball’ was poor Mac.
Thinking back, I see that I could have done things differently. I could have made more community with people on wheels— more than just the occasional events I attended with them. I could have caravanned before a full year and a half into my van living. I could have stayed longer with friends and family, to give myself a rest, and a chance to re-enter society.
But I didn’t. And I felt so feral, that it stretched my mind— and to be perfectly honest, sometimes I didn’t know if I would find my way back to polite culture so easily.
Luckily, I always snapped back into the morays and culture once I re-joined it, stepping out of the van for a long enough time to regain my footing. The reality is, my body had been in civilized society longer than I stepped away from it– so I was able to re-ground quickly.
Yet, being feral is no joke– it’s a definite downside to (solo) van living.
Traveling in the van, I made an effort to go to cultural events that were uniquely American, even if they weren’t necessarily my cup of tea.
So when I saw a Renaissance Fair advertised in a local newspaper, and had a day to kill— I decided to go and see what it was all about. It was the “largest in Arizona” according to the billing, and boy, did that turn out to be true.
I gotta say, while I knew there were folks who adored these festivals, I hadn’t really understood the allure of Renaissance Fairs. What did one GET from donning a costume and speaking and acting in the manner of folks who centuries ago?…. I was going to try to find out.
Sure, I thought knights were cool and all, but cosplay from the time of the plague wasn’t terribly appealing to me. While there was supposed ‘chivalry,’ that wasn’t…. the greatest time to be a woman, from all reports— and there was the whole, ‘pouring all waste fluids into the street to dispose of them’ thing— though I was hoping the Renaissance Fair wouldn’t take their re-creation THAT seriously. (They didn’t, whew).
I wasn’t really sure what to expect as I pulled into the parking lot right at the opening time, but I do know I was NOT prepared for the number of cars and people that had already packed the lots and stood in long lines snaking near the gates, waiting for entry.
Here I was, a lukewarm participant in this whole venture, and I had to wait in line for about an hour just to get into the festival. I stuck with it, thinking something amazing would have to be inside— why else would these crowds have formed and queued?
At least there was plenty of people-watching all around me in line. This kept my mind thoroughly occupied. This is when I began to note that Renaissance festivals were not ONLY for people who love dressing up like it’s 1599— they’re for… anyone who likes dressing up in ANY kind of costume.
People in period costumes, like this troubadour? Check.
The entire cast of Star Wars? Check.
Buzz Lightyear? Check.
Wait a minute…
There were also goths, woodland elves, some serious Lord of the Rings cosplayers, a couple alien-looking video game characters, and even a few wayward furries.
I noted about half the people in-line were in plain street-clothing. This was my ‘free pass’— I had worried about standing out like a sore thumb without a costume, and had considered renting one. Now, I thankfully wouldn’t have to spend the money (and the time)— because based on these lines, that could have taken awhile.
Y’all. There was a Schedule of Events posted near the door— and it was multiple pages long! This was getting serious. The event that most caught my eye was “Tournaments at the King’s Arena!” (yes, it had an exclamation point after it). There would be jousting competitions— and now, I was stoked.
I entered the gates, and headed toward the arena, thinking it would be a short walk. Nope. This was more like a Renaissance CAMPUS than a festival— I passed huge performance tents, shops, restaurants (selling turkey “leggs” of course)— for some reason, they spelled “leggs” (with 2 Gs).
I paused briefly to watch some fire-eaters perform a series of tricks (wow!)— maybe Renaissance Fairs were…. cooler than I thought?
The shops were cleverly-named and ‘punny,’ and fun to browse en route. From “Squire’s Attire” to my favorite, “Twigs and Berries”— which was an emporium selling codpieces. Yes, those codpieces. Talking to the owners of the shop, they were clear the historical need to hide a man’s…. parts… was critical, given the breeches of the day did not cover that particular section of his body fully and the tunics of the fashion did not either. Thus, the codpiece.
Some of the pieces were traditional, evoking the popular designs and colors of the time period. Others were really outrageous, and purposely hilarious— including perhaps my favorite, the one that had carrots stuck to it. Perhaps the popcorn one strikes your fancy? Or the one that Spider Man is crawling up?
All of the shops were clearly horsing around a bit— not a one took themselves seriously (thank goodness, it would have been super-boring if they did). Silly signs hung about, with some shops saying they were selling “Dragon’s Teeth (Sustainably Harvested)” or “Don’t P*ss off the Fairies” and “Openers for Thy Mail”— many adopted a dialect that was more reminiscent of Monty Python than actual Renaissance times.
There were actual armorers scattered about— a chain mail store featured heavy, stylized garments that one could presumably wear right into battle. And a sword shop featured a million warnings that touching the blades of swords was in fact, dangerous. One could buy a broom, a spooky journal, a pewter mug for brews, or just about any kind of dagger one desired.
I spoke to several shop owners— and found out this particular festival overed FIFTY-ONE acres and had over 16 stages, occupying hundreds of semi-permanent buildings in its location. Huzzah! That’s a lot of ground, and thus could hold a lot of people —- it averages about 250,000 visitors each year during the 4-6 weeks it runs…. that’s a quarter of a million people, folks.
Finally, I reached the King’s Arena, and I was just in time. The competition was juuuust getting underway. The crowd was pretty amped, thanks to an excellent master of ceremonies, who— similar to at Medieval Times, was telling each section of fans who their knight would be to represent with applause.
Each knight was introduced, and came out on horseback to fanfare and pomp and circumstance. The gentlemen on horseback (see, told you it wasn’t as fun for ladies back then) carried wooden shields, and long jousting poles. These horses were strong, and their run-ups to the center were swift — this wasn’t a slow-paced-trot— but a full gallop.
And SMASH!!!! — the shields split, making satisfying sounds as the wood splintered under the weight of the joust. And of course, since this was likely highly-choreographed, no one was knocked from their horse (that would have been dramatic and exciting, though). The winners challenged the other winners as the tournament went on and the competition winnowed.
The crowd was pretty hilarious— a whole section decided to go absolutely ham, and had clearly made signs and flags for their champion. They whooped and cheered and clapped, and even stood nearly the entire time the competition unfolded: this was clearly something they looked forward to throughout the year. Ultimately, the black-and-yellow knight wasted the others, and was declared the winner.
Good for him.
The biggest lines were (surprise, surprise) for Ye Old Beer and Wine sellers, and hilariously, I waited in line behind a king (pictured below) who ordered a… Bud Light.
After the jousting, I decided to do some more people watching and snapped some of the photos of the more inventive costumes I saw. I was finally seeing how this was just good (old-fashioned) fun, dressing up not to revere the past– but to have a silly time puttering about in a themed wonderland.
My eye spotted some archery– which I was eager to try, because why not? There were little stalls set up, and targets in the near-distance. I appreciated the few reminders NOT to shoot one’s fingers off by placing them in front of the arrow (fair enough), and gave it a whirl. In twelve arrows, I got relatively close to the bull’s eye— but no dice on an actual money shot.
Wonder if I would have been more successful if I was aiming at codpieces?
I only stayed for a few hours at the fair, as it was getting warmer and a LOT more crowded— this was the kind of event that would have been a lot more fun in a group, and a costumed group at-that. But I had plenty of fun exploring on my own, and was glad to have tried something out of my comfort zone.
I learned a ton in my first adventure into a Renaissance Fair— first, any and all costumes would be welcome. Second, everyone at these is actually ‘taking the piss,’ as they say— there was really nothing serious about the festival (except maybe those sharp swords and ability to shoot off your finger while doing archery). Thirdly, I suppose I learned that Turkey “Leggs” is the proper ‘ye olde’ spelling of “Turkey Legs”– noted. Not terribly useful, but noted.
Oh, lastly I learned that Delta Airlines, who wished me a “Good Journey” on the way out– was an operating airline during the Renaissance years. Who knew?!
People always ask me if I can pick a favorite destination— and I usually say something to the affect of ‘most of the National Parks are pretty spectacular, and it would be impossible to pick a favorite since they are so different.’
But when visiting Guadalupe Mountains National Park, I was reminded of the famous phrase “They can’t all be winners.” It just… was frankly near the bottom of the list for me. In retrospect, there was a lot of reasons for this– some of which had to do with conditions in the park, and some of which had to do with my declining mental state as I neared a year and 1/2 of full-time van living.
In a desolate area in West Texas, Guadalupe Mountains isn’t one you would typically pass by. That said, it’s not far from Carlsbad Caverns National Park (which is *well* worth the stop), and that proximity may have you thinking, ‘Maybe I should also visit Guadalupe Mountains National Park while I’m in the area?’— let me suggest this: you can save yourself the detour.
Part of my malaise might have been the time of year I visited— late-winter, early-spring (February in South Texas). This made for less-than-ideal conditions: but with temperatures soaring wildly in the summer, I also wondered if this harsh place was ever terribly hospitable.
My arrival was met with a sign in the visitors center declaring winds were whipping at 50-60 miles-an-hour. High wind warnings were posted everywhere, but having driven 7 hours to get there— I wasn’t in a position to pull up stakes and leave. So, I figured out a short hike I could do to have at least a small experience in the park area, and then booked a campsite to hunker down for the night.
The short hike I chose was very mild— almost no elevation gain– and the stark dryness of the air was exacerbated by the high winds. Accordingly, I brought far more water than I felt I needed for Mac and I, and set off on the trailhead for the easy Pratt Cabin Hike.
Perhaps it was the cloudy day, but the desert land appeared to be a much more muted landscape compared to desert surrounds of Tucson, from which I had just come. The vegetation just seemed browner and flatter, with the growth of plants hampered by the altitude and winds in the harsh environment. Spring had yet to come to the area— so it looked more barren than the more colorful and lush desert landscapes I had gotten used to seeing by this point (e.g. Tucson, Organ Pipe, etc).
This made the hike feel relatively featureless, save the strange long arms of the Yucca plant, which reached up and punctured the mountain horizon every now and then.
Feeling a bit disillusioned, this moment caused me to pause and reflect on the way that traveling so much can actually provide TOO MANY reference points for a brain. At some stage of my van living, I realized that everywhere NEW that I saw had a too-handy comparison to somewhere else I’d already been: which made the travel feel less like discovery, and more like a repackaging of some other things I’d already seen. I was clearly feeling tired, and a bit cynical.
If you can say, “THIS desert landscape reminded me of W + X + Y, with a little of Z throw in”– are you really exploring, or just rehashing old ground? It was a thought-experiment that stuck between my eyes.
It was on this day that my fatigue with van living became more pronounced to me, even though I am sure it had been building for awhile. I was getting a bit jaded the further I went. Here I was, surrounded by beauty in a National Park, and my reaction was, essentially: ‘meh.’
It was there, on this flat and windy trail in Guadalupe National Park that I realized: it might be getting to be time to hang up my spurs on van living. I didn’t know when yet, but I knew I was on a countdown.
The hike wound into a canyon that was more scenic as I covered the last mile into the cabin. This cabin had been the 1930s. Falling apart, but still somewhat intact thanks to a sturdy build of the river rock around the area, I rested on the same porch as the inhabitants had– sitting in a rocking chair while I ate my sandwich for lunch, with Mac at my feet.
With the wind picking up as the afternoon went on, we didn’t linger long— and Mac and I did the return trip in half the time. We wanted to get back to our campsite before sunset, and wanted to figure out how to angle the vehicle to blunt the terrible wind.
I’m happy to say that I have only run into two truly surly National Park rangers in my two years of van travel— folks who seemed to contradict the entire point of rangerdom by seething at the idea of your very presence as a visitor. One of them, I’m sorry to say, was the ranger manning the campsite area at Guadalupe Mountains— she greeted me bluntly by saying the winds would be high, and sarcastically bid me ‘good luck’ in keeping my gear safe before walking away in a huff.
Of course, it’s nearly impossible to bed down and sleep when 60-mile-an-hour gusts are broadsiding your van and shaking it like a packet of panko bread crumbs. I spent a miserable night, beginning to drift off — only to be woken by a violent rocking of the van. I think I got zero sleep that night.
Which was the icing on the cake of crappy feelings I experienced at Guadalupe.
Here’s a big caveat about my visit to Guadalupe Mountains National Park— I realize that I was really IN my own feelings on that day. Also, I was occupying an area that was a fairly shallow distance into the park throughout my hike and stay overnight— and according to the maps, the desert views got more impressive the deeper into the park one ventured. There was an available dirt road that led back into the park that took over two hours to travel and navigate, and I can’t speak to what was back there– I was too concerned about the high winds to make that attempt.
It was also a cloudy day, which never sits right with someone who carries the nickname ‘Sun.’ While there were patches of sunlight, it was so overcast by evening that sunset was nonexistent.
All that to say, maybe you’d absolutely adore Guadalupe Mountains National Park in a way I could not– while I was coming to the slow realization that I was fed up with van living.
When I saw the forecast was not meant to change, I was thrilled to leave the next day via the back roads of Texas that led there. Only to literally drive right into a cloud of persistent wildfire smoke that hung over me for the next several hours— West Texas was burning at the time, and Mac and I drove fast to ensure we wouldn’t end up burning with it.
It was an inglorious but fitting end to a haphazard visit to a national park I won’t be going to ever again.
It didn’t seem right that I had traveled across the U.S. for years and not seen a Frank Lloyd Wright-designed home in-person. I decided to remedy that by visiting Talesin West in Scottsdale (AZ), a property the famous architect and his wife lived in seasonally for many years.
This development prompted me to get in touch with Moon, who now resided in the Phoenix area— and I asked if she would she be interested in meeting up for an afternoon to see this architectural wonder. She said she would, and we made a firm plan.
Which meant that Mac was in for the surprise of his life.
These photos don’t do his excitement justice– having not seen Moon in about a year, he went absolutely apoplectic when he heard her voice. Leaping up on his back legs, he knocked Moon right to the ground and covered her in kisses. I don’t know if I have ever seen him so excited before (or since). Throughout the afternoon we spent together, he kept turning completely around to gaze at Moon (as if checking to ensure she was truly there).
We took an afternoon tour of the Wright house— only a few are offered each day, and advance tickets are pretty much always needed, though notably, not impossible to get— I snagged mine only a few weeks prior.
Arriving on the grounds, Moon and I observed a number of sculptures throughout the ticketing and waiting area— they were lovely, often adding a burst of color and curvilinear shapes to a rocky and angular set of structures. We didn’t have to wait long for our tour to gather. It was led by an eager retiree who was keen to impart knowledge (the best kind of tour guide).
The guide explained that Frank Lloyd Wright created Talesin West as a compendium to their Talesin home, which was located in Michigan. The couple moved between them during the year as the weather and seasons changed. Giving a broad overview of Wright’s style, the guide explained the 4 main principles employed in his designs– which Wright called “Organic Architecture”— the foremost principle of which was that buildings should blend with their natural surroundings.
Moon and I threw each other a glance— these sounded eerily similar to the principles of the architectural “Modernism” movement, from the architecture tour we had previously completed in Palm Springs. I asked the tour leader if these styles were similar— after all, the building itself looked as if it could be at-home there— and the guide smiled. The principles, he admitted, were extremely similar— but Wright had created his own unique term “Organic Architecture” to helm his school of thinking, nonetheless.
This was only our first indication that Wright was a real arrogant character– of which there was more evidence to-come!
The first section of the house we dipped into (tucking our heads, the doorways were low-slung) was the office area where Lloyd Wright worked and met with clients. The doorway wasn’t the only aspect of this house that felt low-profile— each room would have furnishings (all designed by Wright) that brought the user closer to the very earth. In this room, plans and blueprints would be strewn across the broad table for approval (though, did anyone really approve a Frank Lloyd Wright design this late in his career, or did they just accept it?).
We then walked around the front of the home to see the full impact of the edifice— which met the rock around it in a beautiful and nearly invisible intersection. The lower angles of the long roof protected from the Arizona sun, of course— and the house was angled to receive winter sun (the full affect which we were experiencing in February).
A small pond was out front to help bring some evaporative moisture to the air, a smart design. There were also some rocks with historic petroglyphs scattered about his property– something ancient people probably would not have been thrilled to see. The view wasn’t bad, for being near the heart of Phoenix.
We entered the home through the original front door— which was off-center and not through the expected center inlet. Again, we stooped to enter. You might be wondering what the carvings are near the door— the couple traveled extensively in Asia, and collected these pieces of art with the intent of using them in the space.
Entering the living area, the Wright-designed furniture was again low to the ground— and the guide invited us to sit. The experience of the room, of course, was dictated by Wright’s own hand in creating and placing the furniture exactly how he did. He was apparently so fastidious about furniture placement in his homes that even when visiting those lived in by others, he would surreptitiously move the furniture back to his original placement (against the wishes of the owners).
An example of his chair design is above— simple, elegant and quite comfortable. And speaking to his high opinion of himself: he did have a bronze bust of himself in his own living area.
The living area was comfortable and large, with the seating lining the outside of the room— our seated group gave the impression of a large, convivial gathering. Which was his exact intention. The social aim of a room like this was taken seriously as a part of the design. Light streamed in from two sets of windows— that at a lower and higher level.
Cleverly, the windows above were shaded using canvas, blocking most of the sun out, but filtering enough to let further light into the space.
Interestingly, the home was originally built without glass-panel windows— with the original intent of remaining open to the airflow. Apparently, Mrs. Wright had something to say about that, and windows were installed a few years later. Wright was so irked about this, that he wouldn’t allow the glass to enclose the vases he had placed on windowsills— so the panes were cut to allow for these jars to remain in the same exact places as originally conceived.
The guide pointed out the large stone fireplaces throughout the rooms— heated entirely by these large hearths in the winter, Wright would often have his apprentices light them and tend them. Any amount of charm is possible when one doesn’t have to do the grunt work themselves!
The private bedrooms and his internal working office were much more austere— with panel doors that slid completely open to the light. The shower was downright utilitarian, made entirely of metal and looking a bit like a meat locker.
Wright had a ‘kiva’ on his property— named for and inspired by the sacred rooms certain native tribes included in their vast dwellings (examples we saw at Bandelier National Monument, Mesa Verde, and Chaco Canyon). Again, Moon and I raised our eyebrows at each other— borrowing excellent ideas from a culture was one thing, but appropriating sacred symbols based on misguided feelings of exoticism were another. We chalked this up to Wright being a product of his time, in which exotify-ing other cultures was in-vogue, not frowned upon– but it didn’t exactly give us a great vibe.
The last stop of our tour was an outer building that functioned as a movie room, a theater for stage shows, a piano recital hall, and whatever other gathering the Wrights wanted to host. The space was designed to be nearly acoustically perfect— which the guide demonstrated by standing up front and barely projecting his voice, yet reaching us with ease. Even the chairs and tables and wall sconces within were Wright designs, showing the man to be ever-meticulous.
By the time he lived here, Wright employed a ton of people— but mostly, used apprentices for free labor. The guide also hinted at a fairly grisly murder that happened right onsite at Talesin West, but this was of no particular interest to me (the bookshop definitely contained books on this, if you care to explore it).
The tour of Talesin West was enlightening, and it also showed what a peculiar, particular man Wright was. Exacting, precious, and stubborn— traits that no-doubt helped him excel in his craft, probably made him a nightmare to work for and transact with (and maybe, to be married to?). Now THAT would be a tour I’d love to take— Frank Lloyd Wright according to the women who married him over the course of his life.
But in America, the focus of these tours is on the ‘Great Men’ and their Total Genius, and rarely pays mind to the kind of people they were in the process, or the daily lives they lived.
Time seemed to fly on the tour— as Moon and I were back in a familiar groove— seeing America, taking in information, and also holding a curious-and-examining distance from everything we were told. Then regrouping later to deep-dive into internet rabbit holes to uncover a more well-rounded truth.
In what seemed like a minute, it was time for Moon and I to part ways once more— back to the lives we were building separately. For me, it was back to Tucson to my campsite, and for her— back to a job she loves in Scottsdale (though it’s a place she does not always love).
And for Mac, back into the passenger’s seat of the van— which he inherited from Moon.
Driving from California to Arizona, I passed by some very large sand dunes: the royally-named Imperial Sand Dunes. As I approached on a long, straight road, it was apparent that the landscape was giving way to huge piles of sand, lots of scrub brush, and not much else.
I didn’t really have an agenda for visiting the dunes– I treated it as a stopover on a long drive. And when I got there, that decision was reinforced– since I personally am not into motorsports (and this duneland was clearly for off-roading).
Looking about, the only folks around the dunes were dirt-bikers and ATV-ers– the conditions being ideal for motorsports in deep sand, this attracted a crowd that was more about engine-revving than a quiet walk among the dunes. In fact, enterprising individuals had even set up ATV-rental in the dune area (which one could rent for a few hundred bucks an hour).
‘Merica.
I elected to take a short walk out onto the sand (with Mac), so we both could stretch our legs and enjoy the sand for a moment before pushing on. And boy, was that sand SOFT and soothing under my feet.
A few other wayward travelers were also out walking (on their feet, not on wheels)– and they helped my photos provide a little more perspective on just how grandiose these dunes were: they were overwhelming in size. A little disorienting-ly so!
And needless to say, it was easier to dash down the dunes, than to walk up them.
For those who follow this blog, you know that Mac loves running and zooming in sand– typically, he enjoys running by the ocean the most. But, I happen to think he just adores the feeling of soft sand between his paws– and he proved this with some of the happiest dog-zoomies I’ve seen.
Most of the dunes contained much less ‘pristine’ sand, and more the tire-tracked kind, as you’d see at a loud-backfiring off-road race. The sand was rutted with deep tracks as far as the eye could see– which, if you are a bit lost on featureless sand, might be a good thing?!
I honestly couldn’t help but wonder how these ATVers found their way back to their campsites at night, without getting lost among the mounds of sand.
The Imperial Sand Dunes were worth a stop– of course, if you’re an ATV-buff, it would appear to be paradise. Otherwise, it was an impressive landscape to spend a few hours walking in (if you don’t mind the ear-splitting sound of engines every once in awhile).
(I spent the entire month of January 2024 in Mexico, traveling down the Baja California Peninsula. This is my last post in my series about the trip– check out other posts from this as well, all will include ‘Baja’ or ‘Bahia’ or ‘Playa” in the title, and will likely feature pictures of pristine beaches).
If you followed along with all my Baja posts– thank you for reading this far.
In retrospect, the thing that stuck with me about Baja in general was how very touristed it could feel, and how crowded most of the bigger beaches could be– feeling nearly stuffed-to-the-gills with people in their rigs (like in the post about Playa Santispac).
This is an entry to say that not ALL of Baja is full of giant, luxury machines and loud, drunk Americans and Canadians. There are dozens (if not hundreds) of smaller beaches that dot the peninsula on the bay side– and if you are lucky enough to snag a coveted spot at them, you CAN find true relaxation and peace on a Baja beach.
My favorite beach experience in all of Baja was (head and SHOULDERS above the rest): Playa Coco. It had come on a recommendation from my caravan host, and I am thrilled to say it was the most serene experience I had during my month in Mexico.
Playa Coco is protected in just a few small ways– one: the road into the beach is dirt and hardly flat, which prohibits the truly gargantuan Class A big-rigs from making their way down there, two: it’s not very large, with the ability to fit fewer vehicles in the cove area, and three: its small size might ward off people from even attempting to get a spot on it.
I was able to show up on a weekday and easily snag a spot on Playa Coco for just $10 USD a night. Yep– THIS VIEW– parked about 6 feet from the ocean– was just over ten bucks. Sometimes, van living felt like an absolute bargain– and this was one of those moments, as even a basic hotel with this kind of beachfront view would have been priced at least 10 times above that amount, if not far more.
Mac immediately took advantage and went splashing throughout the shallows, even finding a doggy friend to join him in the shenanigans. I immediately got out my beach chair and sat my bum on it, stretching lazily out into the sand. It was a real “aaaaaaaaaaahhh” moment, if I’m honest.
Whereas other beaches in Baja had been full of people and cacophony, Playa Coco was full of the best kind of nothingness: I savored the lack of noise. It felt like true paradise to be on a beautiful beach, but still to feel some real quiet. Mac and I both felt more at-ease than we had in some time.
In the evening, the quiet vibe became even more pronounced. Now, this was partially luck– I’d heard some particularly raucous van-lifers had recently passed through and disrupted the chillness on this very beach. Which made me treasure the subtle sounds even more– I listened to the rush of the pelican wings as they glided over the surface, and the gentle lap of the waves onto the cove’s edge.
It was so relaxing that it nearly lulled me to sleep. When you watch the video below, pay close attention to what you hear– NOTHING! That’s right, just the quiet lapping of the waves and… peace.
If you’re ever heading to Baja, absolutely prioritize going to Playa Coco– which felt like one of the chillest-and-yet-best beach experiences available on earth.
(I spent the entire month of January 2023 in Mexico, traveling down the Baja California Peninsula. This is the second in my series about the trip– check out other posts from this as well, all will include ‘Baja’ or ‘Bahia’ or ‘Playa” in the title, and will likely feature pictures of pristine beaches).
Multiple species of wildlife migrate through or station themselves in the Baja region during the winter. One of those is the grey whale, which has a major birthing area just off the coast, on the shallow and protected side of an old fishing bay in a town called Guerrero Negro.
Guerrero Negro is a place that derived its name from a pirate legend, but the actual tale is less saucy than implied. The port town was initially a fishing and pirating super-hub, and now made much of its living through mining their salt flats, and tourism— thanks to these whale spawning grounds.
Grey whales come to this area to have and raise their calves every January and February— when exactly they will arrive is unknown, but our Baja expert friends had it on good intelligence that they’d be there as I made my way back up the coast to California.
My planning-mode kicked in: Would I need a reservation? Which company to choose? At least about the reservation, our caravan hosts were clear— I wouldn’t need one. Astonished (as this was whale high season), I was told just to arrive at the best tour company in town the night before I wanted a tour, and they’d take care of the rest.
This seemed too easy to be true, but I had learned in Mexico that being more laid-back did have its advantages. So I went with the flow.
The recommended tour company was Mariscos, the longest-serving tour operator in the area. They claimed to be one of the only tours that employed actual biologists to help spot and observe the animals— which was good enough for me.
When I arrived for the night, they even had a safe, walled parking lot — super-easy, if not the most beautiful setting for the night. The next day was due to be in the 80s, and I knew that leaving Mac for 4 hours in the morning would wreck my nerves— so I took the typical precautions for him: all windows covered, some windows slightly open for air, two fans on— and I was pleased that when I came back, temperatures inside were still cool. My pooch had slept happily the whole time!
Back to the tour— a bilingual guide spoke in both English and Spanish as we took a short (15-minute) bus ride down to the archipelago that led to the boats. Salt flats were clearly visible from the windows, and he talked about purchasing salt drawn right from them, if we desired. The salt crystals mimicked icy white frost on the sand and rock, and we passed a processing plant as we traveled.
Having seen the way the whale sharks were so carefully protected in La Paz, I hoped for the same for the grey whales and their babies. At the exact moment I was thinking this, the guide was describing how the whales, being curious, might come up quite close to the boats or even breech or splash nearby. He then said, “The Mexican government does not want you to touch the whales…. However, the Mexican government is not on this tour”— to which the rest of my tour group cheered and applauded.
Well. So much for careful conservation. I remembered that my caravan hosts had flagged this company as one of the most ethical and long-serving in the area— which made me wonder a little about what I might see from the less-reputable tour companies out there.
And I soon found out— there seemed to be a bunch of boats just waiting near the docks for our trained drivers and guides— it was clear they intended not to search for the whales on their own, but to just lazily follow the one tour company that always knew where it was going. Sure enough, our two boats were ‘tailed’ out into the water by about six other crafts.
All were small speedboats that only held about 12 people each, and I wondered how each would hold up to the lapping of the seas. Luckily, quite well. I didn’t feel sick in the 4 hours we were out on the sea, thanks to a pretty clutch sea wall and a fairly competent captain.
Once we got to the area containing the whales, we didn’t have to wait long to see them— their massive grey-blue backs and fins would slip above the water as they took a breath, then would disappear back into the waves. Sometimes, I could barely swing my head around in time to see them before they dipped back under the surface. Other times, they made more languid bobs up to the surface and lingered a moment– a few even breached out of the water, for what seemed like 7-11-style “Big Gulps” of air.
Seeing the first little fin of a baby was just magical— I think my heart nearly exploded. They were so much shorter than their massive mums, a pint-sized version of a giant-to-be. Getting to see one small fin or angled back bobbing alongside the bigger one of their mother (as seen below from afar)– that definitely tugged at the heart.
I’m cognizant that looking at someone else’s whale-watching pictures are like listening to someone describe their dreams—while vivid to the teller, the visuals are often boring to a person forced to consider them. So, I’ll be careful to only include some of the best photos I got, and not expose you to a boring reel of hundreds of tiny fins only visible at a far distance.
But I do want to remind you before continuing too far– that I took every single one of these pictures using my iPhone. THAT’s how close to these great beasts we were.
Early into our voyage, we heard a massive splash right next to the boat— looking over, we found a curious whale had popped its barnacle-laced head right out of the water! This whale stayed above the surface for a moment, as if regarding us— as if trying to look us in the eye (not that finding his eye was easy, given the amount of barnacles all over him).
He blew a shot of air right out of his blowhole before dipping back under the surface.
Our boat erupted in astonished, excitable ‘yelps’ at this point — and of course, a few idiots tried to touch the beast, who smartly chose that moment to depart our company.
Even with our guide’s warning, I was not quite ready for how close the whales got to the boats— it was extraordinary to witness. The mothers would often push their young calves to the surface— presumably to allow the calf to get a bigger breath more easily— but also, potentially to have a look at all of us? It was hard not to see them as curious about our presence, since they came around the boats so often (despite the option to head out to sea).
(Below, you can see one tossing his fin up right between the two boats in the area).
I’d had a feeling there would be no English guide on the water, and there was not. So, while I wish I could relay amazing facts about these whales, I did not have enough Spanish under my belt to follow the tour guide’s words once we were in the boat.
That said, there’s some things that defy language— and the pure joy that my Spanish-speaking boatmates found in this particular expedition was not lost on me. I took a few videos of the whales coming up above the surface, and the audio still cracks me up to hear— grown men and women whooping and hollering with enthusiasm whenever a whale came around.
It was an unmistakeable sound— that same one that expresses the inner joy that children feel when they see animals. It’s a pure feeling adults can occasionally find, if we are able to drop our cynicism. Their sheer enthusiasm was contagious, and delightful.
Even with the grace they moved with, the sheer power and force of these animals was still in the back of my mind— when a few came up right underneath the boat, their long, massive bodies could be a bit intimidating to see right below the only floating device we had. I’d watched enough nature documentaries to be dangerous— even an errant fin flick from a whale can be deadly: but of course, they were gentle as lambs.
It was a felicitous few hours on the water— and an experience that exceeded my expectations DESPITE having seen photos of so many close encounters with the whales. I was so glad I had taken the extra day and made a brief detour to see these incredible animals (and their babies!).
It was an experience I’ll never forget. But poor Mac slept through the whole thing!
I have the most exciting news! I was standing (majestically, as usual) on the streets of La Paz, and a man approached my humans and asked them if I’d like my portrait drawn.
Man, I was really hoping they’d say ‘yes’— and they sure DID!!
So, this nice gentleman drew my picture!!!! I sat in the sand like a Very Good Boy and tried to be a good model— I mean, a Dogel? — but it was such a long session, I ended up having to lay down for a little while. If you translate, one hour in dog time? That’s like SEVEN HOURS in human time!!
Mommy kept having to direct my attention toward her to make the picture good, and I listened to her MOST of the time, as I wanted it to come out nice. Did I mention it took a long time?!
But I think it was worth it.
What do you think of the result? Does it capture my handsomeness?!
(I spent the entire month of January 2023 in Mexico, traveling down the Baja California Peninsula. This is the second in my series about the trip– check out other posts from this as well, all will include ‘Baja’ or ‘Bahia’ or ‘Playa” in the title, and will likely feature pictures of pristine beaches).
Baja’s largest city– La Paz– only had about 200,000 inhabitants.
This is a small city by American standards, but it felt downright bustling after beach camping. It even had a Wal-Mart (hey-o!), and was big enough to house the first automotive stores we’d seen on the whole peninsula (*so, if you have a diesel vehicle, bring extra DEF along for the journey).
It also had a notably tiny airport– but one of the only ones up and down the Baja peninsula that is not in a resort town. I picked up my friend at arrivals, and off we went for our adventure.
Our first stop when arriving in the city was a wheel-jerk for paletas– ice cream or popsicle-like bars that, if you follow this blog, you know are some of my favorite treats. These are (unlike many sweets in America) made of the ingredients they actually say they are (e.g. mango is made of mango puree). I got the mango and had them cover it in Tajin and a little Chimoy, for some heat– and my goodness, it was a wonderful treat to perk me up after a long, hot drive.
La Paz was a mix of real grit and polished glamour– not unlike other metropolises, inequality was baked-in, but the juxtaposition seemed more visible there. Certain areas of the city— those most catering to foreign tourists and wealthy residents— were the spitting image of design districts in Los Angeles— but most of the city was not quite as fortunate.
There are always features or architectural elements that define cities– in La Paz, it was actually the security bars that covered every parking area, window, and door of every private residence, no matter the part of town or the wealth of the residence. It was so common as to be a bit unsettling— perhaps indicative of crime rate, perhaps indicative of a populace that lacked any trust in one another. I had read that a few heads of cartels were arrested in their La Paz homes recently– so perhaps these measures were warranted. Either way, the “gates of La Paz” were the most common sight to see.
We elected to observe the same rule of not driving at night, and generally tried to be in by dusk, unless we were in the well-populated Malecon-area downtown. Most of Baja remains fairly safe for tourists– but every now-and-then I’d meet travelers who had some petty crime stories. One other thing was notable: shells of vehicles parked on the street abounded– stripped of tires or parts, often rusting in the sun. This sent a clear signal: parking the van anywhere ungated for any length of time wasn’t going to be a smart move. So, if you are bringing a vehicle to La Paz– see if off-street parking is included where you are staying– or in the case of my campsite, if a gate or 24-hour security would be on-hand.
I camped at a campsite called Campestre Maranatha, which our caravan hosts had highly recommended. Having now stayed there, I would heartily join them in singing its praises. It was hardly private— sites were right alongside one another— but it was lovely facility-wise, with hot showers on most days, and laundry. There was a large palapa at the back that offered some serenity and sahde, and highly-helpful staff who spoke more fluent English than anyone else I had encountered in my time in Baja.
While the setup was not always serene, the skies at sunset? ALWAYS were.
Our main goal in visiting La Paz was to swim with whale sharks— the bay side of the peninsula was a popular place for young whale sharks to grow into their adolescence. We’d set up our eco-tour with a company recommended by my caravan folks, the terribly-named MeXplore, which sounded like a… uh… different kind of company than an ecotourism one. We set off for the marina on our first full day.
We were outfitted with snorkels and wetsuits (though the water was barely cold). Our guide was an extremely bright young woman who clearly loved these creatures, and was fit-as-all get-out from swimming with them essentially every day (she was in the water swimming for several hours daily).
She held up an adorable plastic whale shark toy, and provided some facts about the sharks and some instructions on how to swim alongside them. Notably, this is a species of FISH; they are NOT sharks— that’s a misnomer. The whale shark is the largest fish in the world, but we wouldn’t see the largest possible ones on this day— as we’d be hanging out with youngsters, mere adolescents at 18 feet long!
On our journey out to the protected whale shark grounds, we saw a few dolphins (see above).
Whale sharks are apparently such a reclusive species, once they become adults and leave for open water, they are rarely seen again. This is why little is known about the adult life of the species— scientists do not even know how they mate (!). Like the blue whale, they are pretty rarely observed in the wild. And yet, they can reach a whopping 50 feet when they are adults!
While still teens, mostly male whales sharks would congregate and feed to increase in size in off the coast of La Paz— acting like a ‘pack’ for a few years in a shallower-but-fertile-area for catching prey. The whale shark, our guide explained, eat plankton, and as they take in water, filter it for prey and then expel the rest of the water out of their gills. This was neat, and also reassuring to know they were vegetarians.
I was glad the Mexican government was careful to protect the access to the feeding grounds for the whale sharks— our small boat went through a multi-step process of being verified both on-land and at-sea as a legal craft with legal access to the area. The tour and the government officials clearly took conservation seriously, only allowing two small boats into the area at one time.
As with all animal encounters, success is never guaranteed— which we knew that going in. This led to a concerning moment in which my friend and I were poised on the side of the boat, fins dangling out— with both the ship captain and the guide staring into the ocean, flummoxed. They spoke to each other hurriedly and in Spanish— my friend and I exchanged worried glances: what if we’d come all that way, and… would see no whale sharks?!
Tense minutes passed (that felt like hours), and then, the lookouts finally spotted a whale shark. “Get ready!”— our guide called, and we slid our snorkels into our mouths and jumped in. The captain had positioned us expertly, and the guide explained the whale shark would basically be swimming right up to us— and sure enough— out of the murky blue, suddenly there was a massive fish coming our way.
There’s something instinctual about seeing an 18-foot creature of the depths. Despite knowing they could not (and didn’t want to) harm me, my breathing got really shallow and fast. I knew how to snorkel, had done it plenty before, and still— found it hard to keep up with the speedy whale shark as we swam a few feet from it.
Luckily, that was just our first pass— we were able to go swim alongside the fish another 4 times each— and by our second time, I’d relaxed. Kicking more fluidly and breathing more calmly, I was able to keep up with the juvenile whale shark, though it was not easy. It doesn’t look much like they are speed demons, but the way they cut through the water was a tough act to follow. I worked hard during one pass to jet even a little ahead, in order to see its big, silly face coming toward me.
Something about the grin of a whale shark is both majestic and really goofy-looking. It’s got a wide mouth that when feeding, sometimes vibrates in the water a bit like it’s just done a ‘raspberry.’ It will open wider from time-to-time, and if I was anthropomorphizing, I would say it looked like a bit like a grin. I didn’t get a photo of this in the water, but you can see the big, wide ‘grin’ on sculptures and murals memorializing the whale shark around town (see below).
In the water, our guide had to capture us on video, because of course, we were busy swimming as hard as we could to keep up with these deceptively-fast creatures. She took the videos of us tracking alongside the beasts.
Because sharks eat plankton, the water where they feed can be murky — the visibility in these photos and videos below doesn’t look super-great, but remember that we were within about 2 feet of the whale sharks as we swam, so we could see them quite clearly. As usual, the photographic evidence only reveals a small fraction of the experience– but it is worth noting that some days, it’s far murkier.
We were surprisingly fatigued after keeping up with the teen versions of the world’s biggest fish, but were super-satisfied on the boat ride back to shore. We’d seen something really special, and we suddenly were very, very hungry: so off we went to find lunch.
The Baja peninsula– as I mentioned in previous posts– has plenty of fresh fish, but while the major cities have supermarkets, fresh veggies were not the easiest to come by on the rest of the journey. Which is why we lost our absolute minds at Green & Rosse, a restaurant that by all counts, was a total “gringo trap.” (Aside: you are welcome to borrow that nonsense mantra on their menu page if you want, which I assume makes sense but was just translated poorly?).
My friend was just tickled by the appearance of smoothies on the menu, and got both a smoothie and green juice to celebrate her health, or whatever that mantra said to do. Jokes aside, the food was pretty exquisite, given it was fresh— fresh herbs, fresh veggies, fresh mozzarella cheese— it was like balm to my guacamole-logged, cheese empanada-filled, spicy-chip laden, stomach.
Some of the most famed beaches in Mexico are also the ones in well-known resort towns like Cabo San Lucas. But traveling by van through Mexico, you learn that pretty much every strip of bayside sand between California and the tip of the peninsula is pretty spectacular. And just because someone plops a resort somewhere, does not make that the best beach (Cabo, notably, was only two hours from La Paz, for context). Two of the best beaches in the La Paz area were only an hour outside of the city center, so we went to check them out– and I was chuffed to find them mostly empty on the days we visited (something you’d never find at a resort).
Tecolote (or Playa El Tecolote) beach was one that allowed free camping— and other than during the famed Baja 100 or Baja 500 off-road-race events, sleeping spots can be fairly easy to find. Setting up the van in the morning, we had our own snacks, shade, and cold water for the day. It was a windy day, but the water was crystal clear and a gorgeous blue-green I had not seen since Australia.
And of course, as a reader of this blog– you know Mac bounded out of the van and straight for the ocean waves, as fast as he could! Cooling his paws in ocean water IS is favorite, after all.
And a plunge was definitely needed– this far south on the peninsula, temperatures were now topping 80+ degrees in JANUARY, so it felt great to dip into the water, which was not cold itself. This water was so crystal-clear, it was almost impossible to believe it was real.
Another beach, Playa Balandra– named one of the prettiest in the world by many travel magazines, was restricted in use. The government of Mexico controlled access by permit, and one could only get in by waiting for two selected gate openings: one at 8 am, another at 1 pm. We elected to try early, and reading that there could be long lines, we arrived at the gate an hour early. We were the first car (oops, sorry to my friend who woke up quite early for this!), but at least were assured entry (and our choice of prime beach spots).
Once the gate opened, we headed into the cove. It was a sparkling blue-white hue, and in direct sun, so we heeded our reward for being early and secured a palapa by tying Mac up comfortably in the shade. We enjoyed reading and lounging for awhile, and Mac buried his chest in the sand to keep cool.
The water was shallow and impossibly clear– especially given the popularity of the beach. My friend decided to pass some time by practicing her “Instagram poses” made popular by the aesthetics on the app, while my buddy Mac did some poses of his own in the shallows. As we chilled, we observed some folks walking all the way across the bay to the other rocky side– meaning the entire bay was shallow enough to lazily walk THROUGH (never higher than waist deep).
There was a small ‘hike’ to the top of a rocky ridge to see the cove below— more of a scramble really– to see the panoramic views of the water all around was wild. As I’d seen before from a cliff above Bahia Los Angeles, Baja had no shortage of coves on coves, beautiful areas with white sands and shallow areas for kayaking, paddleboarding, and generally laying about. Plenty of travelers had rented a kayak to get out into this serenity, represented by mere yellow ‘dots’ from high above.
It was a good thing we brought snacks — including the tiniest possible bottle of Fresca. Which, when you think about it– it generally exactly how much Fresca you want, before it starts tasting terrible. Perfect portion, turns out! While walking on the beach at one point, I heard a tourist complain that the chips in Mexico were always “some version of ‘hot’ flavored”– and he was not entirely wrong. From Takis to Ruffles that burned the tongue, and everything inbetween, spicy chips reigned south of the border.
The beach day at Balandra was lovely, if a little short— the officials came around to empty the beach at 12 noon, so that we could depart by the time the 1 PM folks entered by gated entry. By that time, temperatures were sailing into the high 80s, so I was glad we’d chosen the morning ‘shift.’
Leaving, we remarked that Playa Balandra was the kind of beautiful place that was made for Instagram– but somehow remained fairly natural and unspoiled. The controlled entry and exit had made the day peaceful, where an unregulated environment could have gotten real out-of-control, real fast.
The promenade by the sea– called The Malecon by the locals, was bustling full of runners, joggers, and people just out enjoying the sunshine. Overlooking the bright horizon of the bay side, it was nice to take leisurely walks to enjoy the myriad of sculptures along the way. Occasionally, we pinched ourselves on account of this being JANUARY and all!
My friend works in the arts, and was able to find us a “taller” to visit— Spanish for workshop. Taller Arte 64 Press was owned by Daniel Amora, a printmaker and well-connected artist in Baja. He led her on a tour of his studio while Mac guarded the entryway, and while I found and purchased a lovely print the artist had done of a blowfish. The studio space was lovely and sun-filled (and Mac did a great job ‘protecting’ it). Daniel was a great conversationalist, reminding us that the peninsula was quite large: here in La Paz– we were 27 hours of driving from the U.S. border. (Which made me remember just how far I had left to go, once I turned the van for home).
We also found an artisan gallery that was full of crafted items that were original and fascinating. Casa Parra was an extremely well-curated but resonably-priced shop of creative types who made all sorts of arts and crafts that were unique (and not mass-produced). The shop was quaint, but was assembled with excellent taste– and I’d highly recommend a stop in, if you enjoy shopping with local artisans.
That day, we discovered the best restaurant that I ate at in all of Mexico– Tiger Club was not just the best food I’d eaten in Baja: it was the best I’d eaten in MONTHS, maybe longer? And I’m not the only one to think so– the New York Times did a piece on food in La Paz, and wrote up Tiger Club as part of its profile on the city (see it here: https://www.nytimes.com/2024/04/03/travel/la-paz-mexico-travel-hiking-diving.html)
For good reason– the ingredients were extraordinarily fresh– the simple dishes were well-constructed, blending together beautifully but still tastefully distinct. The cuisine was an homage to southeast Asian food, with the depth-of-flavor one would expect from that area of the world. The proprietor of the restaurant– a woman named Clementine (pictured above) who sported a slight French accent and was incredibly well-traveled– made it a point to personally invite my friend and I back for dinner. Given this invitation, how could we not oblige?
Reader: the dinner meal was even more exquisite than breakfast. While Mac couldn’t have any of the dishes, he watched the kitchen staff intently (and they might have given him a few scraps). The cucumber salad was tossed in a flavorful chili oil, and the green papaya salad was fresh and light– the most surprising was the roasted squash dish, at the bottom left– which had an impossibly-good char on it thanks to a seasoning that performed like a deeply-spiced dry rub.
Clementine was kind enough to send a complementary course or two– and I was entirely full and more-than-satisfied, downright chuffed with my meal: something I hadn’t been in awhile in Baja after eating.
The street art in La Paz was plentiful, and vacillated between terrible and excellent– it made turning every corner an experience. Most of the wall art was devoted to sea life,
After a lovely few days with my friend, it was time for her to head back to the airport. After Mac and I dropped her off– I decided to leave the more touristed area and headed toward the central shopping district, where more actual residents lived and worked and congregated.
I was still looking to understand the culture of Baja that didn’t revolve around tourism– and I was glad to experience a bit of it. This part of town delivered a much purer vibe of Mexico– bodegas, street food stands, cell phone shops, and lots of legging emporiums (lots), and not a lick of English on the menus of the restaurants. Driving down the entire peninsula, all 27 hours of it– given how sparse the towns en route were, I never felt like I encountered anything not made explicitly for tourists. So, in many ways, this part of La Paz was the first time I felt like I was able to absorb something of the people that made up the place (not just the sights of the place).
I was reminded that for all the beautiful beaches, and all of the pristine waterfronts– that to really get to “know” a place– there’s absolutely no substitute for just going where people live– and taking a long, observant walk. La Paz isn’t high on the list of tourists in Baja, as the places that cater FAR more to tourists (e.g. Loreto, Cabo, and Todos Santos) get lots more love. But, you could go to every single one of those places and not see how people who live there, really live.
Back at my campsite for my last night in La Paz, I saw some rigs that were reminiscent of “old Baja” rigs: off-road vehicles that were designed (or modified) to travel down the Baja peninsula without the use of paved highways (which didn’t exist until the 1970s!)– before that, overlanding was the only way to get from one place to another in this neck of the woods. Driving across dry lake beds, finding pathways in the packed dirt– whatever it took. This German dude and his massive dog were part of that tradition: he only stopped one night at the civilized campground before setting off again to bookdock.
If you meet people in Baja who are old enough, they remember (and talk about!) those days of traveling the entire peninsula without roads– something that sounds far more gnarly and rugged than I was willing to do. Baja was so empty for the entire 27 hours of driving down to La Paz, it really gave perspective to think about the kind of adventure it must have been to take that on without a single road or service to use. Potholes or not, at least I knew the road would not sink beneath my tires!
La Paz remains one of the only places on the Baja peninsula that one can get out some of the “gringo traps” that abound throughout, and really feel the vibe of something slightly realer– and grittier.
(I spent the entire month of January 2023 in Mexico, traveling down the Baja California Peninsula. This is the second in my series about the trip– check out other posts from this as well, all will include ‘Baja’ or ‘Bahia’ or ‘Playa” in the title, and will likely feature pictures of pristine beaches).
After several more hours of dusty, harrowing driving through more empty desert, an oasis.
We drove up an embankment and a large half-moon, sparkling bay gleamed up at us from below: Bahia Conception was a beauty. We could hardly wait to get down the cliffside to it.
Bahia Conception was absolutely gorgeous— and also… really, really crowded. Playa Santispac was the beach we camped on, and we quickly realized this would be a different kind of campsite.
Despite timing our arrival to try to avoid a crush of people, the January season is still the high season in Baja, and we struggled to find camp spots next to one another. Eventually, a few people gave way, and we were all able to get beachfront camping.
And when I say beachfront, I mean it. My van doors opened just a few feet from where the tide rose to.
But don’t let these serene pics fool you– this was not the kind of beachfront camping in which one wakes to the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore— nope. This was the kind of beachfront camping in which one wakes up to a gas-powered generator firing up so the rambunctious retirees downbeach could cook breakfast.
Were there peaceful moments? Absolutely. Was this a peaceful place to camp, overall? Nope.
It was just chock full of vehicles and people, and those people had… clearly come to stay awhile.
Our caravan hosts remarked about how Starlink had created a visible change in the way people utilized the camping by the bays in the last few years— formerly, they remembered— people would jostle for beach camping on the weekends but struggle to remain for long, as this remote locale contained zero cell signal. So anyone of working age– or anyone who cared about internet connectivity, could only stay a few days before moving on.
Now, enabled by Starlink, people could defy the etiquette of sharing the beaches— and simply plunk down on Playa Santispac’s sands for months at a time. Our hosts were right— looking down the row of rigs, nearly every single one had a Starlink dish attached. And some had clearly been there for months already, as they had practically set up second homes in the beach hut (‘palapas’) with grills, rugs, and surprisingly, a number of small kitchen appliances.
And due to the hardness of the sand at this particular cove, bigger rigs could park here— Class A (you’ll know these as massive tour-bus-looking-things) RVs dominated the eye. Even when taking a nice beach stroll, or out for a calm paddleboard— the metallic gleam off these massive buses was unavoidable.
This was a bit strange. Here we were in a remote and beautiful place, but with extravagant levels of brought-in-luxuries around us. One rig was so large, it had its own elevated porch that sat high above ground level— meaning its owner never had to set foot in the sand (see below).
The gross thing about the big rigs (or rather, those who drove them) was the lack of regard for the fragility of the environment around them— of course, there’s always a few bad apples that spoil the bunch. So that wasn’t unexpected per se, but in the world of RVs, this meant we saw plenty of evidence of people dumping out their grey water tank (sink disposal) DIRECTLY into the sand. The photo below on the left shows them tossing fresh sand on top to try to disperse the dump site.
And– hate to say, very few people cleaned up after their dogs, so we had to watch our step.
Worse, our caravan hosts said they had seen people dumping their ‘black’ tank (actual human waste) into the bay a few times. Not cool at ALL, but even tried-and-true people-on-wheels etiquette seemed to have gone out the window at Santispac.
It was impossible to be at this beach and not think about the fish and wildlife living in and around the bay, who no-doubt were dealing with the runoff and direct dumping of the humans on-shore. This was enough to put a damper on this beach nearly entirely for me— and for a few others in my group too. There was just too much disregard for the area, and with the Mexican proprietors of the campsites looking to please tourists– they didn’t have much vested interest in reigning in the worst behavior.
But that bay? It was exceptionally pretty.
Which meant more paddle boarding in the beautiful shallows! (Which, if facing out to the bay, looked gorgeous and serene– and if facing toward the beach, looked like an RV-storage-parking-lot).
Our caravan hosts arranged a boat tour in and around to some of the other islands and inlets in the bay, and found an isolated beach with not one person on it (but campfire evidence someone had been there). This was much, much more peaceful than our experience back at camp, so I did savor the quiet.
The clams at these shallow beaches were plentiful enough for people to just ruffle around in the sand until they came up with one– so folks collected a few to bring home and prepare for dinner. The blowfish skeletons were also a reminder to be careful when wading– not just for rays, but for spiny things, too.
Another smaller, more peaceful beach housed a lovely coffee shop that was entirely focused on serving its tourist clientele from north of the border. Nomadico was a truly quaint beach-shack-turned-high-end coffee shop, from which I ordered a Golden Latte (yep, turmeric)– and they even had plant-based milks. This was one of the constant contradictions in Baja– feeling relief at having some delicious, comforting food items, but also knowing the locals were beholden to serving our palate.
Back at our camp, there was a burgeoning market for goods at Playa Santispac– sold out of the trunks of cars by the locals, was everything you could imagine wanting. From produce, to shrimp, to clams, to empanadas, to banana bread, to ENTIRE PIZZAS, these foods were sold for extremely reasonable prices. (The banana bread was literally the best I’d ever eaten, no lie, I got and shared a loaf like 3 times).
Other beach coves in the area were much more serene— if lucky enough to get a spot on them. (Playa Coco was a favorite of mine, which I’ll cover in my return trip). Several days into camping, we got a hot tip that another secluded beach with just a few camp spots had a pop-up bar called “Hidden Bar” that was made of clapboard and would open only at happy hour— a few of the intrepid among us set out to find it.
It wasn’t THAT hidden, but the alcohol in their drinks? Kinda WAS hidden. And this brings me to THE night of puking all over my van- so if your stomach gets queasy about that kind of thing, go ahead and skip forward a couple of paragraphs.
I’m not kidding when I say that “Hidden Bar” produced the most delicious margarita I had ever enjoyed. It was mostly made with fresh limes, and frankly, must have just hit the perfect ratios of everything else— as the flavor was simple but exquisite. At only 100 pesos (this is less than $5), why not have another before we left? So the logic goes.
It was halfway through the second margarita where a truly overwhelming buzz washed over me. Still a warm, welcome buzz, which gave me the somewhat demented idea to continue drinking once we got back to Playa Santsipac.
Bahia Conception’s camp was a large enough area to have its own restaurant— opening daily around happy hour, it even hosted karaoke, live music, and bingo. Seeing a sign for karaoke night when we returned, I (unwisely) skipped dinner, and tequila-buzz-cavorted into the bar to sing. About a half hour later, most of my caravan (*who wisely, ATE DINNER FIRST) piled into the bar behind me — suddenly, a group outing had begun.
Reader: I sang many songs that night. I drank many more beers that night. Somewhere between “La Vida Loca” and “Everybody!” (Backstreet Boys), I felt the room spin a bit. I’m going to take a pause here to say that being alone in the van, and being concerned about safety in general, I rarely drank at this point.
Why was this different? Well, I knew I was surrounded by people who would make sure I was safe, but also, I think it just hit me harder with the lack of calories I’d been consuming. Being a vegetarian in Baja, I was subsisting on little sustenance, and exerting myself in the sun quite a bit.
Anyway, you know the rest. I turned in for the evening and immediately threw up all over my small, trusty, 19-foot Starship. I would not even realize I did this until morning.
When I woke up in the AM, the first thing I smelled was vinegar. Or what I thought was vinegar. I’ll spare you the details, but I had to take my van completely apart over the next several hours to make sure I got the remnants of the night before out of every crevice. And just when I thought I had defeated the mess– found the last nook and cranny where vomit could hide– I’d find something else.
I had to take an unplanned trip to Mulege, the nearby town— to use the laundromat to get through two loads of sheets and the covers of my upholstered cushions. I soaked and scrubbed pilllows, I used 400 Clorox Wipes. I finally found a shower in town that was hot (hell yes!), and only once the clock reached 4 PM, finally felt like I was no longer hungover. And like I no longer wreaked of my own stomach fluids.
Mulege was a delightful town, despite my relative misery when I was there. Quainter– no-doubt on behalf of being near some of the best beaches in Baja, it had everything a beach-loving person could need. Blankets, sunscreen, a laundromat, and importantly– a fresh water store. The purified water stores in Mexico are purifying water in sanitized conditions for cheap-as-chips prices, and Mulege is about halfway down the peninsula– good for a refill.
Mulege’s biggest building was a mission, Misión Santa Rosalía de Mulegé– to be specific. Built in 1766 by the Jesuits, this mission was on-again-off-again with the various sects looking to convert the people– from Franciscans to Dominicans, all kept the mission in good stead. It had been “extensively restored” but was nonetheless transportive back in time.
Mulege was located on a thriving riverbank– one that looked practically tropical, a true oasis with all the palms. Buildings dotted the surrounds, making this wonderful hamlet look downright nestled-in.
Was it possible to “blend” in Mulege? Absolutely not. Shopping in a bodega with enough broken Spanish and enough of a tan might get you by, but driving these luxe vehicles? Yeah, we weren’t exactly in incognito mode as we drove in and around town: walking the streets was the only way to sink into a rhythm that wasn’t a tourist beat. (PS, the tequila brand below was 20 pesos– that’s just over a BUCK).
I laid off the sauce for a few days after the Great Ralphing of 2024, nursing a few nonalcoholic beers I brought with me and looking sheepish every time one of my lovely caravan-mates mentioned the incident. (It hadn’t taken long for word to get around that I practically destroyed my van with vomit). It only took about two days or so for me to find the moment as funny as THEY did.
When it was time to break the alcohol fast, I indulged in an anniversary ‘vintage’ edition “40” of Miller High Life. Because OF COURSE I DID.
Another stopping point was Mulege Brewing Company, a Mexican-run, gringo-trap of a spot that was full of great beers and high-end bar foods Americans and Canadians would love– like fancy nachos. I filled my belly here, just happy to see vegetarian items.
It was time to move on from Bahia Conception, and from each other too— this is where the caravan would close, and people would go their separate ways on their individual adventures. I had a friend flying into La Paz, a 7-hour drive further down the peninsula, and would need to leave early. Which meant it was time to say ‘goodbye’– though, I learned that road travelers never say ‘goodbye’– they instead offer “see you down the road”. A phrase I truly loved.
It was surprisingly hard to say ‘see you down the road’ to the group of people I’d traveled with over those 3 weeks. I literally cried while bidding farewell to people I’d barely just begun to learn the names of (I’m terrible with names), as I felt the drag of being on my own again.
When I search myself as to why I was so broken up, I think it was just the crush of the accumulated loneliness I’d been experiencing over the previous months. While Mac was always a great companion, I hadn’t had real companionship in awhile— and always knowing someone would be around to chat, to share a meal with, to share a beer with, to share a small van project with— that was a warm and happy (frankly, familial) feeling I hadn’t felt in awhile.
On my last night, someone was playing music softly, and the lapping waves were peaceful. It was a good moment– a quiet moment– and I share that with you below.
Thank goodness, saving me from the crushing impending loneliness– my friend was already in-flight to meet me, laid-over in Mexico City. As I set off the next morning, I knew I’d be seeing her late that night— in La Paz, the capital, and largest city in Baja.
Head to the next post to hear all about La Paz, and the whale sharks we swam with!
