The Slow Baja Winter Expedition isn’t about speed. It’s about shedding urgency—trading the noise of daily life for the soft crunch of tires on sand, the taste of salt air, and the kind of stillness only the Baja Peninsula can offer: seven Days of Dust, Tacos, and Whale Songs

by Josiah Roe & Michael Emery with visuals by Edgar Jacome

Day 1: Crossing Over

I meet the group at Chula Vista Marina just after sunrise. There’s coffee, a massive box of donuts, and a healthy dose of nervous excitement. As I pass out the pile of Rocky Talkies, I push a donut on everyone. “You don’t have to eat it, but you DO have to take one.” With the ice sufficiently broken, we lick our sticky fingers, and the bonding begins. We cruise south to the San Ysidro border, where our man inside the INM has our FMMs prepared and waiting --we get two dozen people stamped and rolling in under ten minutes!

We wind down the toll road and follow the lush hills into Valle de Guadalupe. Winter in Baja has its perks. Green hills dotted with wildflowers are an unexpected bonus. Lunch at the Adobe Food Truck hits every note, and next door, the indomitable Tru Miller leads our private tour of the beautiful Adobe Guadalupe Vineyard. The tour is quiet luxury, the kind you don’t rush.

With our hearts and bellies full, we drive deeper into the hills until we arrive at Rancho La Bellota. That’s where Camp Slow Baja officially begins. There’s a round of Rosa’s famed margaritas, speeches from local dignitaries (me), a ribbon-cutting, and a ranch-roasted lamb.

By the fire that night, laughter replaces introductions. We’ve crossed more than a border—we’ve crossed into something slower, sweeter.

Day 2: Tracks in the Sand

After a rainy breakfast at the ranch, I tuck Slow Baja into traffic and thread through Ensenada. We stop at a local Mercado to pick up dog food for Rick Howe’s rescue. He’s a local legend at Shipwrecks and, when we visited, was caring for 39 dogs. We laeve over 500 lbs of food and a few dollars in his pocket to assuage our guilt for not adopting all of his dogs.

It’s a long stretch of pavement to San Quintín, but the payoff comes when tires hit the sand and we chase the edge of the Pacific into the fading light. Punta Mazo greets us with fog and salt. I drop into 4-low for the soft sand. Our lone 2WD Tacoma gets stuck, but before he can air down, another truck has the snatch strap hooked up, teamwork does make the dream work.

Fresh local oysters await as we squeeze the limes for our Fortaleza margaritas. We camp right above the tide line, and the ocean sings us to sleep.

Day 3: Oh, The Place’s We’ll Go

Morning coffee happens in down jackets and knit caps. I lead a sandy convoy out and head to Parcela 12 for a late, funky breakfast. Enrique’s enthusiasm and love for his fellow eater is infectious. Cataviña is calling—desert at its most elemental. We dry camp in a landscape carved by time: giant boulders, alien-like boojum, ancient cactus, silence.

That night, Linda and Sergio—local ranchers—grill carne asada over mesquite. We gather round, headlamps dancing. After dinner, I hand out black lights, and the scorpion hunt is on. It’s a weird, beautiful ritual under a velvet sky.

Day 4: Salt and Tacos

We roll into the village for breakfast at the Velasco family café: slow service, unforgettable food. With the unexpected void comes another round of mix-and-match conversations. The bonds are strong. I head across the street to top off on bootleg gas from Eduardo—cash only, five gallons at a time.

The road to Guerrero Negro stretches wide and quiet. We set up camp on the edge of the salt flats. We’ve engaged our Whale Captain’s wife to cook dinner for us; it’s another low-key masterpiece. For our very happy hour, it’s Smokey Senorita’s, a stunning Slow Baja house cocktail utilizing Linda’s Agua de Jamaica and some of the ten liters of Oaxaca’s finest mezcal courtesy of my friend Lou.

Check out his good work at Sacredagave.org.

Day 5: Ghosts and Corridos

At 7 AM, I’m bundled up and buzzing—we’re on the water, scanning for whale spouts. When they breach, time stops. There’s no way to explain the size or grace of a gray whale at arm’s length. You just feel it.

We hit Zihul Martinez’s shop for custom knives. It’s good to see him on the mend after his traumatic brain injury, and our support brought tears to his and my eyes. Our last stop is Tacos El Muelle for lunch. As always, I bring Tony a cold 12-pack of Indio, a tip from his cousin, my Ensenada mechanic; of course, he hands me one. Life is good.

We pack up and drive east, deeper into Baja’s quiet spine. Somewhere out there, we explore an old ghost town. The nearby cave paintings, older than memory, will have to wait for the next trip.

We need to get to Rancho Escondido while it’s still daylight. Don Oscar has a new observation deck to watch the sunset over the distant mountains. He also had steaks the size of license plates.

After dinner, we move to the roaring fire. A ranchhand breaks out his accordion, and Don Oscar, now wearing a blazer and dress cowboy hat, plays his guitar. Corridos and more mezcal fill the night and bring a kind of tired that only comes from living fully.

Day 6: The Finish Line

We rally early and ride a legendary Baja 1000 stage into Bahía de los Ángeles. Sand, silt, and stories stretch out behind us. After a couple of beach stops, it’s true --deserted beaches still exist. By mid-afternoon, we pull into Los Vientos Hotel—our last stop. The Gulf of California sparkles. I dive into the sea.

We cleaned up and gathered for the Baja Bound Finish Line Fiesta. Slow Baja shot glasses are filled and refilled with the last of the Fortaleza Tequila. There’s a trophy, but it’s not really about winning. We toast, we laugh, and someone hands me a tissue I pretend not to need. A week feels like a lifetime.

Day 7: Northbound

We air up, gas up, and grab Machaca burritos and quesabirria tacos for the ride. Some peel off to stay south. The rest of us caravan north through San Felipe, stopping for snacks and cold drinks at Olga’s Corona Deposito just before the Mexicali border. Olga and her mother have the finest selection of prepared treats you’ll find on the Gulf side. They dish out heaping doses of love and happiness with each sale. All is right in the world.

Back in the States, I collect the radios and watch the group scatter like birds. It’s over—but Baja lingers.

“We do not take a trip; a trip takes us.”

— John Steinbeck, The Log from the Sea of Cortez

And this one took its time—slow and sandy and full of meaning.

Ask your doctor if Slow Baja is right for you. Now booking for Fall, 2025.