Yes, yes, I know—there’s been a gap. And no, it wasn’t because I fell off the face of the earth, though if I had, I’m sure Finn would have made a great Lassie-style rescue attempt. The reason behind my radio silence will come up in future posts, but for now, let’s pick up where we left off—crossing the border into Mexico like a well-organized, efficient convoy of experienced travelers.
Except, of course, that’s not what happened. How not to cross a border…
For someone who has crossed more borders than I can count, you’d think I’d have mastered the art of entering a country without immediately breaking the rules. And yet, I started the process by heading the wrong way down a one-way street. Nothing says confident traveler like instant traffic violations!
Thank goodness I had Mathilda and Jonas, my ever-capable travel companions, and Spencer, who, in his speedy Sprinter van, was already off setting the pace for our sluggish VW convoy. Paperwork was sorted, pesos were exchanged, and we toasted to our success with a celebratory drink—because when you cross a border without getting detained, that’s a win in my book.
From there, Jonas and Mathilda stopped to pick up a SIM card while Spencer, true to his name, sprinted out of town, leaving our slower houses-on-wheels to chug along behind him. But first? A winery, because what better way to welcome ourselves to Mexico than by rolling into a fancy vineyard looking like a band of desert vagabonds?
We arrived at Cetto Winery, one of Mexico’s largest wineries, and promptly attempted to blend in with the wine-tasting crowd. And by blend in, I mean we stood out completely. There’s something truly delightful about sipping a nice cabernet when you know you’ll soon be cooking your dinner on a propane stove in a 40-year-old van. If we were going to be vagabonds, we were at least classy vagabonds.
After a few tastings and a leisurely lunch (because wine before a treacherous drive is obviously the best idea), we headed for the hills—literally. And here’s where things got dicey.
Shevanigans, with her four-wheel drive, took the steep mountain roads in stride. Johnny, Mathilda’s van, on the other hand, did not. Every incline was a battle, and we weren’t entirely sure Johnny was going to make it. To lighten the load, Jonas sacrificed himself (and the fridge) and hopped out, allowing Johnny to just barely crawl to the top. I’d love to say this was the hardest part of the day, but we then had to descend into the valley, watched intently by a gang of unimpressed horses who seemed to be betting against us.
The Ranch Life We Didn’t Know We Needed
Upon reaching the ranch, we immediately knew it had been worth the struggle. A stunning Mexican hacienda with lush gardens, a fire pit, a cold dip pool, and BBQs awaited us. Best of all? Horses everywhere. Mathilda, the ultimate horse girl, was in absolute heaven, setting off on an early morning ride while I nursed a sick Finn, and Jonas and Spencer took turns dunking themselves in the pool.
Once Finn was feeling better, we climbed up the mountainside, taking in the valley views that stretched for miles. The temperature was perfect, the scenery stunning, and for a brief moment, I forgot all about the uphill battles of van life (both literal and metaphorical).
We returned to find Spencer in dire need of medical attention—a splinter. Now, normally, this would be a laughable injury, but the chunk of wood lodged in his back required an actual surgical procedure. Enter our in-house medical team (yes, we are officially that lucky): Dr. Mathilda and Dr. Jonas. With their combined expertise, they extracted the beastly splinter while Spencer grimaced heroically. He survived. Barely.
Obviously, such a harrowing medical event required immediate alcohol—but not the antiseptic kind.
Raul, the owner of the ranch, was not only a fantastic host but also an exceptionally good tequila salesman. And by good, I mean dangerous. What started as a civilized tasting quickly escalated into the kind of cozy, heartwarming tequila experience that makes you question every bad shot you’ve ever taken in your youth.
These were not the kinds of tequilas you chug through a funnel in Cancun. Oh no, these were fine, aged, whiskey-level tequilas—smooth, sophisticated, and the kind that you sip slowly while nodding sagely, pretending you know the nuances of agave.
Of course, I never partook in the Cancun-style funnel drinking (ahem, Lianne). But let’s just say I do have a certain Christmas memory involving regrettable tequila choices and an even more regretful hangover. Compared to that, this was an elegant, refined experience. And yes, we all went to bed that night warm, happy, and slightly more in love with Mexico.
Enter: Engineers and Overlanders. The next day brought new travelers—Amir and Azedah from New Zealand, driving the most incredible DIY Land Cruiser camper I’ve ever seen. Turns out, Amir is a mechanical engineer, and Azedah is an electrical engineer, making them the van-build dream team. If I ever need to upgrade Shevanigans into an unstoppable apocalypse machine, I now know who to call.
That night, Raul invited all of us to join the Slow Baja crew for an incredible home-cooked BBQ feast. It felt like being back at a hostel in my backpacking days, except instead of relying on buses and dollar beers, we were trading off-road tips and maps of Baja with experienced travelers.
As always, the best advice comes from those who love a place, and Raul and the Slow Baja team filled our heads with dreams of beaches, cliffs, and magical spots yet to come.
Farewell, Ranch—Hello, Baja!
Leaving the ranch was tough, but the promise of Baja adventures pushed us forward. We climbed the same hill we had so trepidatiously descended and miraculously made it out in one piece.
I headed to Ensenada, where Shevanigans finally got some much-needed propane, and Sergio—Raul’s friend—climbed up onto my van and worked his magic, switching my solar setup from a serial connection to parallel. Thanks to him, Shevanigans was now fully charged and ready to roll.
From there, we hit the open road, trading vineyards for cactus-covered deserts as we drove across Baja California toward the Gulf of California (or as I currently prefer to call it, the Gulf of Mexico, because maps are apparently merely suggestions).
San Felipe was never meant to be more than a pit stop, but then we reached our final destination for this leg—a cliffside perch overlooking the Gulf, dolphins playing in the water, and paddle boarders (including a very confident Labradoodle named Emma) gliding across the bay.
The sunsets? Beyond words.
The company? Unbeatable.
The adventure? Only just beginning.
We may not be able to stay forever, but the road is calling, and Baja is just getting started.
See you at the next stop.
Sheilagh, Finnigan, and Shevanigans
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