I was thinking one day, "It would sure be nice to be able to drive to Hawaii." I hate flying, and if we could drive, we could stay longer. Then I thought, "I wish there was somewhere warm we could drive to that was on the ocean." California seemed too cold in the winter, Oregon was out of the question and Arizona has no ocean.

Still thinking, I pulled out a map and started searching. Mexico was on the ocean, but we could never drive there. We would be murdered or else we would get deathly ill from the drinking water, and there would be bandits lurking around every bend in the road. You certainly could not camp, surely they did not have RV parks. What about getting gas, propane, water, food and medical help? What was the phone system like? I really did not know.

But I knew one thing. I could not approach my husband Jan with my cockeyed idea until I had more information.

I found my source at the library. It seemed that many people had taken an RV into Mexico and lived to tell about it. Why, even Ernest Hemmingway had camped down there.

I casually mentioned this to Jan one day. He put down his newspaper and looked steadily at me, saying, "You are not asking me to drive the van to Mexico; just forget it."

That was like waving a red flag in front of me.

Each day a small positive fact about Mexico was woven into our conversation. I kept up the barrage for months. Then I had a breakthrough; someone knew someone in Horseshoe Bay who had driven the Baja the year before in a Volkswagen van. They were willing to meet with us and answer all our questions.

Jan came reluctantly just to humour me. I had a notebook full of questions, all compiled carefully from his objections. We sat at their cozy kitchen table for hours, sipping coffee, nibbling on fresh muffins and studying maps. The men drifted off into a corner talking about tires, engines and mileage. We women discussed food shopping in Mexico, what clothes to bring and how much Spanish we would need to speak.

That was in early summer. We made a date to get together sometime in September; they thought that would give us the summer to think about it and decide if we wanted to try it. They would be going to the Baja in December and we were welcome to join them.

We met them for our second briefing in September. More coffee, more muffins, more maps and more questions.

It was quiet on the drive home. Finally Jan said, "I’ll tell you what, we’ll go into Mexico, but only a little ways, maybe just past Tijuana. Then we will see if we like it. If we do not we can turn around and come back; if we do we can keep on going down to Cabo San Lucas."

We had no idea what we had started that day. We did keep on going down to Cabo that year, and now have completed year six of our Mexican journeys. We have camped on beaches, in coconut groves, down in an old volcano, in a theme water park, debatable RV parks, luxury RV parks and noisy truck stops. We have learned rudimentary Spanish, lots of hilarious sign language, where to buy fresh bolillos (small loaves of bread), tortillas, tomatoes, how to take the buses and how to barter in the markets. We have travelled on smooth four-lane highways, slow two-lane roads, pot-holed Baja roads, and one-lane dirt roads. We have laughed a lot, sung around starlit campfires, ate many potluck suppers and made more new friends than we can ever hope to keep in touch with.

And our friends from Horseshoe Bay? We are friends for life. We are forever running into them in Mexico. We have had long walks with them on sun-drenched beaches, dinners in small cafes and lazy swims in the pools of Chimulco. We have traded books, recipes, directions to favorite campsites; they have taught us about the stars and lent us their kayak.

Our winters have become one long adventure in a country we never tire of.

We cannot believe all this magic came from one day of thinking, just thinking about the impossible.