The sun hadn’t even peeked over the horizon when I fired up the engine in Denver. Next to me, my German shepherd, Axel, sat alert, his papers tucked away in the glove compartment. In the back, my kiteboarding gear was carefully packed—a reminder of the winds that would soon be calling in La Paz.
We were on a mission: Denver to La Paz, Baja, in 12 hours. It seemed impossible on paper, but I had a plan.
The first few hours of driving were smooth. The roads were quiet, and the high desert landscapes stretched endlessly in front of us. Axel seemed to sense the intensity of the trip—his head resting on the window, ears occasionally twitching as the hum of the engine lulled us forward.
As we sped through Arizona, I got a call that changed everything. An old friend had arranged a helicopter shortcut to shave off crucial hours from the drive. It was waiting at a small airstrip outside of Yuma, right before we’d hit the border. I couldn’t believe my luck. Axel barked in excitement as if sensing the sudden shift in plans.
We reached Yuma in record time, pulling up to the airstrip where a sleek helicopter awaited. Axel had his harness on, ready to board—papers in hand, of course. The rotors whirred to life, and soon, we were soaring above the winding desert highways. Below us, the U.S.-Mexico border came into view, a serpentine line separating two worlds.
The helicopter dropped us off near Mexicali, and we were back on the road, crossing the border by car. The Baja sun had just started to heat up as we approached Mexicali. Border control was tight, but with Axel’s papers in perfect order, the officers barely blinked. After a quick chat in Spanish, a few pats on Axel’s head, and a glance at my kiteboarding gear, we were waved through.
Once in Mexico, the roads felt different—narrower, but somehow alive with energy. The Sea of Cortez was waiting, but before that, I needed fuel: food fuel.
The town of San Felipe was my next stop, a sleepy seaside town known for its charm—and its tacos. I’d heard rumors about a taco stand called Tacos El Poblano, tucked away from the main road, famous for its smoky grilled fish tacos. Axel and I parked along the beach, and sure enough, the place lived up to its reputation. The fish was perfectly charred, wrapped in a warm corn tortilla with a drizzle of crema and a squeeze of lime. It was, without a doubt, the best taco I’d ever had.
With a full belly and Axel lounging happily in the backseat, we pressed on. The roads turned more desolate as we ventured deeper into the Baja peninsula, but every hour brought us closer to La Paz. The scenery changed, from arid desert landscapes to cactus-strewn valleys, all the while the horizon edged with the promise of the sea.
As we hit the final stretch toward La Paz, I could smell the saltwater in the air. The Sea of Cortez gleamed in the fading sunlight, and in the distance, I saw the city come into view. Axel perked up, as if knowing we were finally near the end of our long journey.
Twelve hours after leaving Denver, we pulled into La Paz. The air was warm, and the wind carried the faint scent of adventure. My kiteboarding gear was ready for action, and Axel, well, he was ready for a nap. But me? I was ready for the sea, for the winds, and for whatever Baja had to offer next.