The rig was running great and it looked as if nothing could stop us from making the crossing.  On the horizon appeared an enormous phallice that turned out to be the border between BCN and BCS.  We pulled up to the inspection station and were charged $10 to be sprayed down with toxic chemicals.  Next we were asked for our Tourist Cards which we had conveniently decided not to have stamped at the various spots designated along the way.  The Federales came on board and Johnny handled them while I dealt with el Jefe.  All it took was greasing the already greasy palms of our inquisitors with a few issues of Playboy - Entertainment for Men - Magazine, and some garbled SpanoAmericano and we were on our way to the promised land.

San Ignacio provided us with relief after 8 hours of non-stop driving (well, actually 1 stop).  This oasis in the desert is a Palm lined valley with fantastic restaurants and shade from the oppressive heat Baja.  Oh yeah, there is also this bitchin' Mission that dates back to the early 1700's and is more than worth a look.