Fourteen hours later, only five of which consisted of sleep, the TMC cargo ferry was nearing its port in Mazatlan, Mexico. We’re pretty sure we don’t need the Nescafé instant coffee circling through our cups as the nerves come to surface, but take sips anyways. It smells different here. The air tickles my skin with warm fingers from the top deck as we eye up our future. Matthew and I discuss back and forth how excited we are, but lingering is the faint fear of the unknown.

  A man wearing an orange jumpsuit and a healthy coating of sunscreen on his nose guides us and the Chinook down the ramp and onto new soil. We’re here. Today we are driving the highway number forty from Mazatlan to Durango. Boasting the name “The devil’s backbone” this mountain route is labeled one of the most dangerous roads in the world due to its landscape, drug trafficking history and overall remoteness. Most importantly, it avoids all of the major toll roads and highways, which appealed to us instantly.

  I’m sure most sane humans would read the history of this route and think, absolutely not. What we’ve learned lately is that sanity lives at the North Pole, and we reside in the South.

  Our first order of business is to navigate through the city of Mazatlan, where motorbikes, scooters and pedestrians make up the majority of traffic. With no such thing as an organized traffic light, I’m proud of Matthew for growing eyes not just on the back of his head, but both sides as well. I can’t help but transport into a classic game of Frogger.

  The big green sign for highway forty hovers above us, and the sense of adventure appears in tiny goosebump form across my skin. We wave cheerfully goodbye to the semi trucks roaring down the toll road, it’s just us and the locals now.

  I thought after two months in Baja we would have climatized a bit to the heat, but the humidity has brought a new type of tropical sweat to surface. We quickly trade the dry desert plains for a twisted narrow goat trail road up and up and up through pockets of foreign groves. With each hair pin corner I hold my breath hoping there isn’t another larger vehicle coming at us from the other side. We pass a couple large touring busses and impressively applaud them for choosing this route. And after drawing multiple S shapes with the Chinook’s tires, we feel something.

  I immediately glance over at Matthew, curious if maybe he just let off the gas accidentally. The whiteness flooding his face gives me his answer. A few minutes pass, and when he puts his foot to the pedal, another hiccup. Again, and again. It feels as though the truck is running out of fuel. Did we not fill up? A thousand questions bounce through the cab. Once we’ve heard enough, we pull into a shady side road to play diagnostics. This is not how I imagined our second hour in Mexico.

  We hum and haw, point at parts, accidentally bump extremely hot parts, smell parts and bounce ideas back and forth. Luckily, we’re a very good team when it comes to this stuff, I guess practice makes perfect?

  The reputation of the road is looming, but we’re surprisingly calm. At the end of the day, this is our story, and we’re going to make sure you read it twice.

  Our final decision is to switch out the fuel pump. We carry a spare because spare parts hold the same value as water when travelling the world in your vehicle. If you’re stranded without either, you’re asking for trouble. Our fuel pump is an in-line fuel pump so it sits on the frame right below the driver door. Although fairly simple to remove, I’m sure Matthew’s idea of his first shower in Mexico wasn’t with gasoline. I lend a hand where I can, but he already smells like a gas pump. So, after some spillage, a few screams, but mostly laughs, the new fuel pump is in.

  I turn the key, send the prayers up, and receive the cry of a hundred cats in return. The new fuel pump is not happy, and I can tell Matthew’s optimism is on a one way ticket back to Baja. Regardless, we hop in the truck, smelly and sweaty and send Sunday up the hill. We first dread the noise, but realize the hiccups are gone. Success! We think! Sort of!

  Espinazo del Diablo highway represents that of the train tracks you built as a kid. You didn’t care where you put corners, how sharp they were or how steep the hill was after it. You could care less if the track sometimes faced backwards, and had no guard rail. As long as your train made it to the other side, you didn’t care about the in between. The Chinook leans into corners following suit with the motorbikes. Up and around and down and through, we glance at the map sometimes but get too dizzy. As we climb through the mountains, stout deciduous trees progress into lush pine forests providing the shade we’ve been craving. Cool air pushes its way through our vents as our ears pop and a sense of home lingers.

  Due to the time spent showering in gasoline earlier today, we’ve only completed a quarter of this mountain road. So as the sun bows for our efforts, we pull off the highway into a pine grove littered with fire pits. As the Chinook creeps closer to the edge of the cliff, we can see the toll road way way way down there. I’m already so happy we chose this route. A celebratory bottle of wine from San Javier in Baja, and the cooler air lulls us to sleep.