I think of the time, not so long ago, driving home from an epic week at Scorpion Bay with my brothers Matt, Michael and our friend China from Cape Town.
To arrive at San Ignacio from out of the Desierto Vizcàino is the essence of travel. Nearby, hillside caves house prehistoric art-long-gone animals and strange human shapes-whose origins are still unknown. Across the road, dense, hoary ficus shade a wide plaza, framed by tiendas and restaurantes. Begun by intrepid Jesuits in 1733, the church was finished by the Dominicans in 1786, with a columned façade carved from lava stone, four-cornered steeple and magnificent dome. In the center of San Ignacio, as much a fruit of the spring as the dates, lies its 18th-century mission. An underground river rises in this canyon, forming a tranquil spring, sustaining life. Then suddenly, like driving off a cliff, you drop into a wide arroyo and a miraculous pool of green-a forest on the moon-San Ignacio’s date palms. The sun burns but has no color, leeching away every shade not sandy or tan. To the east: roan cinder cones of the extinct Tres Virgenes volcanoes mark desert cicatrix. The way there is a road of the damned, however, where even the yucca and cardón cactus keep their distance. The Jesuit mission town is located only 80 miles south of the 28th parallel that divides Baja Norte and Baja Sur. San Ignacio is every oasis that has ever been dreamt of.