I stopped and looked around for another way. He, on the other hand, rolled by me on the passenger side, draped a wrist at 12:00 on the wheel, and entered the sludge at a creep. Life as we knew it unfolded in slow motion. The front tires touched the water and went down. They didn't stop, but they sank with such a dreamy, cartoonish pace that those of us watching had enough time to process, react, and theorize. So, we laughed . . .
From us to you, good reader, a New Year wish. The place to be on this recent New Year's Eve, for us and an assortment of friends anyway, was a far off slice of beach on the Sea of Cortés down in ol' Mexico. And we couldn't stop thinking of you. It's a place that's good for kids, clean and empty, and as relaxing or as adventurous as . . .
Somewhere along the road to progress, civilized automotive manufacturers decided the "gas light" was a good thing to add to the dashboard. In most cases when that little red orb illuminates, you're supposed to feel some gratitude but you don't, do you? It's really like getting your final warning. Under the best of situations running out of gas is a downright drag, so a little hey-bro-put-somthing-in-the-tank ought to be a nice reminder; instead it's more of a bummer, the jig is up.
Well. As far as running out of gas is concerned, this was not the best of situations . . .
In a hut in Mexico just 4 months after the attack on September 11, we were treated to an unusual, but beautiful, display of humanity in the form of a home cooked meal.
I used to share an apartment near a small ridge of desert granite called South Mountain at the edge of Tempe and Phoenix, Arizona with my friend Tiamo when we were in our mid-twenties. He got the bigger bedroom, but I got the covered parking space. For a bed, I had a mattress that sat on the floor. When my clothes were clean they went in a pile in the closet. Then I stored my precious climbing gear in two clear 50-quart totes in the corner of my bedroom. I kept a lamp and an alarm clock radio on top of the totes. Ten years ago today the radio alarm clock went off, like it did every day, to the same FM morning radio show.
Guacamole isn't as pretty as the setting you're eating it in. But it's there - in the blue bowl.
Nothing goes with camping quite as well as . . . appetizers. This tasty guac is slightly spicy but can be modified to taste (just add more lime or avocado to dilute the spice factor). Definitely a crowd pleaser, so long as said crowd's been blessed with a proper bag of tortilla chip triangles. Equally important, this guacamole spreads into your tacos or fajitas just fine.
Anyone who's pulled off a long term camping road trip with the family understands that it's not always high on stoke and low on tantrums. Thankfully, the most thrilling parts of a trip actually come decidedly as the answer to a problem.
Believing we had more choices and time than possible, last summer in Baja we tinkered around far too long one day before looking for a beach to camp on. That's kind of typical in the Stephens Family, which is probably why our friends get headaches when we invite them on a trip with us. A few days before, a pair of surfers grabbed us by the shoulders and peered square into our eyes and declared "You like fish tacos, bra? Let me tell you where the best fish tacos in Baja are . . ."
They don't know it, nor should they, but a few notes strummed and sung by Roger Clyne (right) and PH Naffah (left) fits into our road trips all because of one simple event.
In May of 2004, Brooke and I had been married for a year and the notion of me being a father was still, you know, alarming. We spent the weekend of our first anniversary down in Sonora, Mexico kayaking on the Sea of Cortés near the little drinking village of San Carlos. The day she and I left, I met my friend Brian at a seedy dive in Tempe right on our way out of town, sipped a chilled Patron, and he cornered me again about some band he liked. This time he came armed with a freshly purchased copy of ¡Americano! by Roger Clyne and The Peacemakers and he made me promise that we'd give it a whirl. I lied and said okay because I was so focused on getting to Mexico and putting a paddle in the water.
Three-and-a-half years ago we crossed into Sonora, Mexico at the little border post at Sasabe, drove that long washboard madness known as the Altar-Sasabe corridor and I doubt we'll ever do that again. Not because of the washboard - rough and long, yes, and otherwise just fine. It was those guys wearing ski masks in August carrying machine guns that tipped the scales for me. "If they block the road," my gut insisted, "I'm going to ram them."
There were two of them. They had staged a silver Jeep Cherokee with bald tires, and probably hitting on just five cylinders, perpendicular to the road, and backed up onto the berm on the left side of the road. When we approached from a quarter-mile away I could visually make out the two figures, but not their masks, nor their guns. But I knew. I knew.
On Friday, and hitting me like a beautiful Steinway piano falling from the sky right on my head, KC O'Connor posted a little nugget of gold on his tumblr blog.
"To understand the west," the Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist Wallace Stegner wrote, "you have to get over the color green." Combined with O'Connor's photo from Monument Valley - which was all red and vermillion and sand and flame and whatever hovered by a blue, cloudy sky brewing up a (tent-throwing) storm - the craft that is the O'Connor-and-Stegner tumblr post sat on my shoulder all day long, tapping its foot.
Beauty is everywhere, especially in the American west, I think Stegner is saying. The Daily Desert project is a week-long hat tip to these gents, a "thank you for reminding me, fellas." Exploring and traveling the places with open air, fascination, culture, and living things is just one little reason why I like going outside and taking my family with me.
I don't think the other reasons have words.
Enjoy the Daily Desert. Come back every day, it'll be here all week. If you need to get in the mood, here are the inaugural posts:
A long time ago, like in another life all together, my brother moved to Spokane, Washington. For the summer of 1997, I lived there with him and slept on the floor of his apartment for two months because I was so broke and adventure hungry that I preferred to own a sleeping bag instead of a real bed; budget dictated I had to chose one or the other - no regrets.
He's now a single dad of a fun little girl. Here are just a couple of nuggets of stories from the days gone by.
Been to Baja before? You might recognize a few classics: Boojum trees, a vulture atop a cardon, Misión San Borja and, of course, the beloved and zany Coco's Corner. You'll feel the crisp Mexican Pacific wind, watch the starry, starry sky roll by, and witness the moon rise over a cemetary. My only critique, "Man, where're the fish tacos and Pacificos?"
It's the one ingredient to a sweet trip that makes it worth doing at all. At the end of the day, after miles by foot, and time under the sun, nothing quite hits the spot like cold, fresh salsa.
You're sitting on the beach at Bahía Gonzaga on Baja -- with a luke warm Tecate in your hand, a sunburn working its way through your clothes, and a hankering for a trio of fish tacos poking at your stomach -- and the next thing you know a nippled dog waltzes into your camp.
These kids hardly need language at all - what with there being these totally awesome digging toys for the sand. Even though Samantha once complained to me that, "I can't understand her. She talks weird" about this little Mexican girl. Sam is only seven years old, so this turned into a teaching moment.
The rocks, sand, and wild desert vegetation of the Baja pensinsula made up the backdrop for our family road adventure this summer. Greg and I can take partial credit for this successful vacation, having hatched out the whole plan out around a campfire last November. "We've got to get the cousins out on a really cool trip this summer," I implored. "Are you up for something?"
We settled on Baja, pleaded with Mark to go along with it (he quickly agreed), and 6 months later, with fresh passports in hand, we made the trek down. While the trip was Greg's and my idea, Mark was definitely the driving force behind the success of our 2 weeks. He planned a great route and was our group's main Spanish speaker. Baja gave our family the perfect balance of adventure on and off the beaten path. We enjoyed the food, the culture, and the views from every mountain and beach we explored on the way.
Coming at you live-ish from the Baja peninsula... which is a very good reason why you haven't seen any updates in over a week. It's been super tough. Shrimp tacos and off-the-grid beaches on Mexico's most notoriously fun strip of sand and rock are keeping us really "busy."
Pardon some of the funky keystrokes on my part because they have keyboards here that do stuff like this ñ and this ¿ by just hiting the wrong key.
So, back to Mexico. Baja.
The other day we - Brooke, Chloe, me, Greg, and Samantha - were enduring a brutal morning on the beach south of Mulegè. Some coffee, some huevos rancheros, and a gentle tide at about 90 degrees F. A clunky old Ford pickup stopped next to our palapa and a thick and muscular Mexican man spoke a hilarious version of Spanglish through which he offered us an hour-long boat ride for $25.
He claimed he'd show us a sunken boat that's since been taken over by the sea as a reef. He also suggested he'd take us to a nice point where we'd get some fresh clams from the bottom of the Sea of Cortès and swallow them down right there. "Bring limes and salsa, I bring mi panga over here in one two or three horas." He told us in his peculiar, yet admirable, dialect of Spanglish.
Get out your map and look up Bahía Concepción; it's about 2/3rds the way down Baja on the Sea of Cortés side. Here goes a minute of your day from our little boat on the sea.
On Friday, and hitting me like a beautiful Steinway piano falling from the sky right on my head, KC O'Connor posted a little 
A good drive down a bad road goes wrong. Thankfully for the crafty capabilities of Mexican welders, this didn't set us back much at all.
Well, what do you say to a little fresh salsa?
