By this time, the sun was rapidly setting and we were in the middle of Mexico with no civilization in sight. This trip occurring way before we had GPS and the fact that Bill was basically lost, he picked a star in the sky in the general direction of the coast and tried to soothe our concerns of utter desolation. We managed to avoid getting stuck on the sandy roads, but the night dust was bothersome. We meandered through the dark desert and at each set of crossroads chose the one path that aligned most closely with the direction of that star. Such was our navigation technique that night.
Eventually, we did find water's edge and quickly settled into a slumber in our tents after a long day and night of seeing lots of Mexican scrub brush.
We awoke with renewed vigor, and our spirits soared when we tumbled out of our tents onto a picturesque beach with a million-dollar view. Breakfast never tasted better. We were soon wandering about our newfound paradise, content with our complete occupation of this area, save for some beach wildlife and the gentle cadence of the waves on the sand. This was not yet our final beach destination, so we packed our rigs and continued a little farther south.
Months before our trip, Stan had heard that there were a number of relatively poor Indian villages in the area we were headed. In an effort to help these inhabitants, he had petitioned friends and coworkers to donate good, used clothing items to take to one of the villages. By the time we left for our trip, we had literally hundreds of pounds of cleaned and boxed clothing packed in our trucks.
With boxes in every truck and Stan's camper nearly packed full of donations, we meandered down dusty roads until we found the village we wanted. When we stopped in the middle of the little town, the inhabitants gave us curious glances. We were soon handing out boxes of clothing to appreciative residents, but things got a bit uneasy. Our new friends were eyeing our camping gear and asking about it and some of the residents appeared to bicker a bit over the spoils. We quickly realized that we should probably leave before the situation changed for the worse. We hopped in our trucks and left town, still hauling about two-thirds of the boxes with us.
We followed the beach for another 5 to 10 miles where we found the campsite we wanted and pitched camp on another smooth, desolate beach. We buried our basted and wrapped holiday turkey under a foot of beach sand, nestled in a smoldering pile of wood coals to let it slow-roast for a day or so.
The next morning, a plan was hatched and all the clothing was loaded into Stan's truck and the Bronco. Sneaking back over to the village, the two rigs drove through the center while a couple of us riding in back dropped boxes every 50 feet or so, never stopping. We were satisfied that the villagers would probably be donning new wardrobes in the near future.
With our dispensing task complete, it was time for some sand-wheeling back to camp for some cold brews and idle relaxation. That afternoon we dug up our buried turkey and feasted on the most sumptuous bird, its meat falling right off the bone. Thanksgiving dinner in the boonies with good friends makes for some special times. The day wound down and we soaked up the tranquil atmosphere and enjoyed a bright-orange sunset. Nighttime turned cooler and we communed by a warm fire as waves lapped on the nearby shore.
An evening meal as the sun sets in the distance. Except for the beach hippies, we hardly saw another soul anywhere along these beaches. | 
Tire tracks mark our only presence along this stretch of sand. With the tides and wind, they would be erased in only a matter of days. |
Camping at dune's edge among some grasses, overlooking the beach. The soft sand ate horsepower, and we battled all-terrains and mud-terrains on some of the sandy slopes. | |