Wanna hear something loco? It’s already rolling up on 2 years since I turned my back on my storage space in Montreal and headed for Caribbean Mexico, with my late, great, ancient cat, Mimine, in tow. I can hardly believe it.

I last signed off from Bali as I was about to start the long journey back to Canada, where I would be dropping into the unspoiled wilderness (complete with bears!) of the Pacific Northwest for a few weeks.

Once Marsha, my friend and owner of the lovely lodge where I’d be staying, left on vacation, I was low-grade anxious that I’d be lonely (or eaten?) way out there in the middle of nowhere all on my own. But after the weirdly wonky side trip to Indonesia, fresh solitude turned out to be the perfect tonic. I OD’d on crisp mountain air, stunning scenery and long soaks in the outdoor hot tub, and had my mind blown on multiple occasions by green and purple canopies of northern lights rippling overhead. Seeing the aurora borealis was one of the last unticked items on my bucket list ( = time to start a new one?)

I also got to do fun, outdoorsy farm-y/ranch-y stuff like walk dogs, chop wood, tend goats and chickens, and collect eggs, all of which I find more pleasing than what it’s worth trying to explain.

Just as I was starting to think I look pretty fly in a (borrowed) lumber jacket, wool toque and sasquatch-sized Sorel boots, it was time to ditch it all again for my flip flops and sarong and fly south to Mexico to start my house sit. I blinked and the melting spring snow of Carcross, Yukon was replaced by melting under 35-degree heat in La Ventana, Baja California Sur.

It often feels like I can’t settle on the right adjectives to describe the Baja desert. It’s a study in contrasts and complexity. Commanding and delicate. Scary and exotic. Simple and confounding. Dusty and fierce. Dusty. Magnificent. Dusty.

It is a place teeming with secrets; many of which, I’m discovering, will only be revealed in these withering, rattlesnake-riddled months, when the fewest number of people are here to bear witness. June through October is low season in the Baja, when most expats head north to Canada and the US to escape the punishing heat and threat of hurricanes. By accepting the challenge to hunker down here for the half year that few others care to, it feels like I’ve been awarded an all-access backstage pass. I get to see dragon fruit bloom on the spiny, rambling arms of the pitaya, and grimace at the tartness of the (I guess not poisonous?) tiny wild plums that have ripened to a bright yellow. (Also: How?? It hasn’t rained in months!)

Bonus: I’ve been told that when the rains do start, the desert explodes seemingly overnight in a kaleidoscope of flowering cacti. I can’t wait.

Oh, this desert. She is a rogue Queen. One minute she’ll blow your mind with a cherry sunset or a fleeting glimpse of desert foxes, and the next, she’ll sick the stinging tentacles of a Portuguese man o’ war on you as you’re slipping into the Sea of Cortez for an early morning dip (look it up — but not right before bed).

When you’re not in awe of her, you’re taking your lumps from her. Sometimes, you’re doing both at the same time. It’s her world, and we’re just living in it.

And what a quirky world it is. It only took one day trip in the beach banger 2002 Ford pickup the homeowners left for me as transportation to become a veteran of the area’s unique goat- and cow-crossing etiquette.

When (not if, but when) you come upon some livestock meandering around on the road, you slow down and hit your flashers. Once the coast is clear, you continue on your way but leave your flashers on for a while to alert oncoming traffic of the impending hazard. It’s a lot like how we used to flash our headlights back in the day to warn others of a police presence ahead, except it’s for cattle rather than cops. In either case, everyone always appreciates an opportunity to drop their speed and dodge doom.

Though, an absence of speed wasn’t enough to save me from the cash-grabbing shenanigans of the federales, the federal police. They recently nailed me in La Paz (the ‘big city’ about 45 minutes north of here) for a rolling stop, which I’ve been warned they’re famous for doing whether you’ve rolled through it or not (I had).

It was hard to take the tiny officer seriously, with her overly plump, overly glossed lips and her gigantic false eyelashes fluttering in the Baja breeze as she laid down the law. She threatened to confiscate both my Mexican residency card and my driver’s license unless I forked over some cash on the spot. This is the moment when most foreigners panic and pull out their wallet, and the officers walk away with some nice spending money for their weekend. Instead, I pulled out my finest Spanish vocabulary and, cool as a pepino, smilingly declined, while offering to collaborate with her to see what other solutions we could come up with. It didn’t take much of my cheery babble, plus a well-timed joke about how ugly my residency card photo was, for her to realize she wasn’t going to get a single peso out of this Spanish-speaking canadiense, and let me off with a warning. Victory!

Fully aware that I might not always be so lucky, I now stop at every corner in La Paz for a count of 3, despite the occasional honks and shouts coming from behind. I’m not handing over my hard-earned taco money!

Not that that are so many places to spend my taco money these days. Most of the restaurants in La Ventana that didn’t close down for the entire season plan to at least close for the month of September — the hottest, rainiest, buggiest and hurricane-iest month in BCS. Send me your best recipes, as I suspect it will be an active month for cooking from home.

And truthfully, I don’t mind. I’ve been spinning around like a Spirograph wheel since I left Montreal, and having 6 whole months to nest in one place with very few travel plans is a tonic. While the isolation here is mentally challenging at times (and I thought the Canadian wilderness would be lonely? Ha!), the tranquility is welcome. My mind and nervous system are grateful for this extended siesta before I’m forced to unleash the loud, clanging beasts once again to figure out where I’m heading after my winter in Canada.

My impending business trip to California will be something of a test run for what it’s like to be immersed in the cacophony of civilization again. I’m both apprehensive and excited.

I could write pages more. But this is the desert, and the best way I can honour Her Royal Highness is to keep at least a few of her enchanting secrets to myself.

“There is a desert I long to be walking. A wide emptiness, peace beyond any understanding of it.” – Rumi