Feliz Dias de los Muertos

It's the first day Dias de las Muertos. Today is the day when they say the  dead children return to earth to be with their loved ones again. 

So, in the tradition of Mexico, we set up an arrangement of marigolds around the photo of Sian we've hung behind my seat. We hung the photo there because Sian had always talked about driving around in a van and selling smoothies at the beach, and so now she looks out at the road ahead as we hit some of the most beautiful beaches in the world. We placed the marigolds with her because, according to legend, it's their smell that will lead her to where we are - and here is somewhere my girl would have loved to be.

Sunrise at Camp Archelon from our bed in the van

Did she arrive? You could say she did, in her own way. 

On our early morning run, Ivan and I were stopped by Mexican volunteers clustered by the shore, who pointed to a shadow in the shallows. It was a newborn sea turtle, just four hours old - the only one to make its way out of the nest the volunteers have been protecting from coyotes and dogs and rising tides since the eggs were first laid. I'd just been writing about Sian's birth, so it was a sweet reminder of her on this day.

Then, the first thing I saw when I hopped out of the van for my swim after my run was a monarch butterfly. Every time I see them they remind me of Sian, and how, the first time we were in Mexico in 1998, Ivan and I with Sian in utero stumbled upon one of life's most spectacular wonders: the migration of the monarchs to el Rosario in the mainland. 

For a few pesos, we had bused to the village, which at that time was still plowing its fields with oxen, and walked up, up, and up into a cluster of trees. There were a trickle of fluttering monarchs. Then, we turned a corner and were suddenly drowned in sea of black and orange. The trees, the people - my belly pregnant with Sian - became blanketed with butterflies - the very same ones that (if they survived) that would fly all the way back to eastern Canada, like us, to produce four generations of monarchs before the last of their progeny would take the migration again.

If our 1998 visit to Mexico had Ivan and I coming back to Canada with the Monarchs, this trip has Ivan and I heading down to Mexico with them (or a fourth generation spawn anyway). We keep seeing them everywhere:  an unexpected orange flutters past us on the trail, or a monarch glides past our bug-splattered windscreen while we drive. We even saw the first few "gangs" that had begun to cluster  at a sanctuary (like the RV'ers at the surrounding RV parks) in Pismo Beach, California. (Pismo is also where we saw a grown woman sporting a head-to-toe monarch outfit, who was certainly the largest monarch we ever saw).

Pismo Sanctuary. Can you see the monarchs? Neither can I. those suckers never stop. Except...

...for climate change and storms. As you can see from the chart, our 1998 year was just after California's largest count - and they haven't come back in those numbers since.

But I am getting ahead of myself; Pismo was our second stop after we left Sequoia. Our first was a California ranch where I set up my beach chair, put on a puffy jacket against the wind, and caught up on work before hitting the Pacific. 

California working

Then, only 15 minutes later, appeared THE OCEAN! The mountains had been awesome. They challenged us physically and led to some deep introspection. But that first glance of that sparking, blue Pacific between swaying, Seuss-like palms? That was like someone kicked on the Sheryl Crow on some boombox, blaring "All I want to do" at top volume. My mood shifted instantly. It was all singing, sunshine, seafood and sand.

Palm trees

Pismo Beach

Pismo Beach

Our camp mascot

Until the sea fog rolled in, that is. At sunset (spectacular!) on our second day, we sat sipping our beer on the beach sand dunes, watching the four-wheel drives go up and down the beach in search of a perfect evening view, and wondered: what the heck that dark, seemingly boiling cloud on the horizon was. And why was there a weather warning?

Sand dunes at Pismo State Park

The next day came the answer. It dawned cold, moist and distinctly un-Californian. Toques were pulled out, along with fleece-lined pants, and we high-tailed it southward, with everyone blaming us for bringing the Canadian weather with us.

From Pismo, on to the great city of LA where we had a quick LA lunch with our friend's son James and his partner. (Sorry, Paula and Kevin, I forgot to take a photo!)

They're working in LA and had kindly babysat our new battery extension, so we celebrated its much needed arrival with food and drink and a quick tour through the most expensive, celebrity grocery store, Erewhon . In our short visit, we not only got to experience some food porn (and some terrifyingly high prices for a single, almost garishly glossy eggplant), but also enjoyed many hours of famous LA  traffic jams. So we high-tailed out of the city and on to our next - and last US - stop: a date farm outside of Desert Springs.

Iron Chef Kimchi under the date palms

Our hosts were a Korean couple who ran the date farm and a rustic campsite amongst those palms. The best part (besides the farm cats who not only ate the pigeons that stole the dates, but also the scorpions  and snakes) was that the wife was a Japanese Iron chef and made us both bowls of Kimchee Ramen. Delicious broth, but it soon became evident (and was confirmed via research) that the key ingredient had been liver - the very "challenge" ingredient for the episode she'd appeared in. (See the episode here.)

Our last American experience, and our last goodbye to altitude for awhile, was one day in Joshua Tree national park, where it was finally good news that we'd brought the cooler weather. We climbed the famous Mount Ryan, despite the not-so-encouraging signage and the gusting winds. 

Subtle. My favourite sign, at least until...

This one.

One good thing about the wind? Skies were clear and we were able to see the two biggest peaks in California and, south of these, the beginning peaks of Mexico.

At the peak of Ryan's Mountain

Crazy winds

Ivan looking into Mexico

Despite it being Halloween season, I won't bore you with the horrors of bordertown banos. Suffice it to say that crossing was . . . not rapido. We'd chosen a very quiet border, which was good, and bad. Good as in no other tourists. Bad, as in no other tourists. We had a lot of confused walking between el banco and la oficina. A lot of questions requiring references to Spanish phrases copied into Ivan's notebook. A lot of different officials weighing in (national guard included) and conducting lazy inspection of the van, most likely waiting for a $20 US to appear, which unfortunately didn't. In the end, we finally got the required paperwork, and we're good for the Baja, though we still aren't feeling 100% sure they'll agree we did it right on the mainland. But that is a manana problem. Or a manana, manana problem, as they say here. 

Across the border, time for flautas!

All to sum up: we're back, Mexico. So far, we spent two days in Ensenada, where we rented a casa to catch up on work, use a real kitchen, wash our clothes,  and kick-back to watch back-to-back episodes of "Soy Betty, la fea", the original Columbian tele novios that spurred global Ugly Betty series. I love my tele novios.

Sunset on the Palapa

A real kitchen. We finally found a use for the spam!

Two days in a fish town and it was time to head East. To get to this side of the Baha required crossing the desert, and one of the most dangerous stretches of the Baja. So it was a short and daytime ride, and we were lucky to only be pulled over once by the military. During inspection I deployed by pathetic but enthusiastic Spanish and I think they let us go just so I would stop bothering them. Good tactic so far. Note: Ivan is obsessed with cacti, so not sure which pictures to post. I'm sure there will be more...

Cacti

Our picnic stop

Art shot

And then, the Sea of Cortez.

Our first beach stop was Pete's Camp in San Felipe, the "gateway to the Sea of Cortez. And it was goodbye beach sunsets and hello beach sunrises. 

Sunrise over the Sea of Cortez

By the Sea of Cortez

Another day of working, swimming, gathering sand dollars (they are everywhere ) and gleaning tips from experienced RV'ers as they walked their dogs around the playa and hunted for crabs. Then "Ralph", a German pilot expat who'd been in Mexico these past 22 years, offered to take one of us up on an ultralight, a contraption that looks like something out of a steampunk graphic novel. Ivan's always going on about gliding, so he strapped himself in (no waver required) and Ralph took off, right from the beach in front of a van, and gave Ivan a tour of the area from the sky. 

Ivan and Ralph in the Ultralight

The view from above

Coming in for a landing

From San Felipe's, we came here to Campo Archelon, just outside of Bahai de Los Angeles. It was Halloween, so our camp neighbours doused their kids with that super red, staining Mexican sauce so it looked like they were swimmers covered in blood (shark attack?). They then came to our van (where I was wearing my Mexican Catarina apron) to ask trick or treat in Flemish. Two kids - that's more people than we usually get in Gatineau, so it was pretty exciting, so I gave away the tiny Reese's Pieces I'd been hoarding since Ensenada's AirBnB.

We spent last night tasting tequilas and using our Sky app to figure out the constellations. There's one, or rather a cluster of stars that we later identified as the pleiades, or seven sisters, about 1,000 stars that are 444 light years away. It's weird, because you can only see out of your peripheral vision. When you look at them directly, they disappear. Apparently, this is a common phenomenon called averted vision, as well as a great metaphor. I guess sometimes you can only see the things right in front of you when you finally look away.

Sorry for the long post, but wanted to catch up before the tide comes back in. To those celebrating Dias de las Meurtos today, or grieving in any way, I hope you see your own mariposa or tortugas today, or at least catch a glimpse of something magical just outside your vision. Take care, and write to you soon.