Uneasy feelings dissipate as the border gets farther away.

BY DAN GREC

Setting out to drive 40,000 miles from Alaska to Argentina wasn’t nearly as hard as I’d expected. All I had to do was jump into the driver’s seat and hit the road.

I’d dreamed and planned for so long that leaving was actually anticlimactic. For the first few months, it felt like any other road trip. The biggest difference was that the trip felt longer, and Alaska was more epic than anywhere I’d previously ventured.

As the weeks turned into months, I settled into my routines and optimized setting up camp, cooking and resupplying. Because of the abundance of gas stations, supermarkets and outdoor activities, moving from one stunning national park to another in western Canada and the United States was about as easy as overlanding gets … anywhere on the planet.

As the weeks turned into months, I settled into my routines and optimized setting up camp, cooking and resupplying. Because of the abundance of gas stations, supermarkets and outdoor activities, moving from one stunning national park to another in western Canada and the United States was about as easy as overlanding gets … anywhere on the planet.

Me: “I’m driving to South America.” After a long pause, the reply was invariably— Other person: “Wait! You’re going to Mexico?” “Yep.” “It’s extremely dangerous. You can’t go!” “Many people who’ve been there recently loved it.”

“You can’t go. You’ll get kidnapped and beheaded by the drug cartels on day one.”

“When was the last time you were in Mexico?”

“Well … I’ve never been to Mexico. But it’s

extremely dangerous. Everyone knows that.

You’ll die.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Given the sheer volume of people certain I’d die, it was difficult to tune them out and focus on the big picture. If I were going to drive the entire Pan-American Highway from Alaska to Argentina, Mexico was just the first of many hurdles I’d need to overcome. I aimed to do so as safely as possible.

Diving In

I drive south on I-5 until the end—literally at the huge fence on the Mexican border. Staring at the sign and seeing the level of security on display, it quickly becomes clear that a very big change was coming in my life. The armed officer directing traffic waves at me frantically, and I realize I’m in the wrong lane. With some difficulty, I move sideways through four lanes of moving traffic into the “declaration” lane, where I should’ve been from the start. This officer only speaks Spanish, while, at this point, I‘ve only managed to master fewer than five words. He gestures and then smiles, making it clear he wants to look inside my Jeep. After a cursory poke through my gear stashed in the back, he quickly loses interest.