It’s never been easier to fly your own plane to Mexico

A white Suburban, dust trailing, pulls onto the tarmac. Sporting the quintessential Mexican mustache and glasses, the driver sizes up the dad unloading his family and the Stationair. Using a gun, the mustached man tells the wife and children to get their things out, and looks back at the dad: “I was hoping we might be about the same size. Leave your suitcase. Your clothes should fit.” Within moments their trip to Mexico goes the way of a B-movie script and their Stationair is soon speeding down the runway for a low altitude turn-out towards the mountains.

This is the familiar story we have all heard about flying south of the border. Thankfully we can retire these to film or history, as it’s never been safer, or easier, to fly to Mexico.

Snowy mountain

Leaving the snow.

Recently a friend and I had cause to celebrate a newly earned PPL, so in the midst of winter, we left snow-covered Idaho for a 4000-mile trip to the tip of Baja and back. A Super Cub is not the ideal plane for this mission. With only 46 gallons of usable fuel and 31-inch backcountry tires, our speed was limited to 100 miles per hour. This journey was going to be on Mexican time: low, slow and off the beaten path. We had read about the hassles of border crossings and the decline of general aviation in Mexico. And of course, theft. We didn’t even know if it was possible, but she needed the hours and stick time and I needed to get out of the snow.

We spent two full days doing research. We gathered up the documentation and tried to make sense of all the contradictions. A radio operator’s license? Really? What is that even? Logbooks with weight and balance certification? I’m not taking those to Mexico in a fabric-wrapped plane that doesn’t lock!

Finally we stumbled upon an organization with a David versus Goliath ethos, the San Diego-based Baja Bush Pilots. These guys have worked tirelessly for almost half a century against the behemoth that is the state government of Mexico. If you are reading this dispatch looking for a quick and easy “how to,” look no further. For $99 you get access to a web portal that streamlines the whole thing. They even send you a plastic briefing card with all the radio comms and exact procedures to tuck away into your door pocket. If only the Cub had a door pocket, sigh.

Let’s cut back now to our scene with the white Suburban on the tarmac. Flying to Mexico—and especially to Baja—hasn’t changed much in 50 years. It’s like seeing California when Clint Eastwood was mayor. The stories about plane theft have been replaced with much larger prey, including a recently stolen jetliner out of Mexico City (that was later crashed at a remote airstrip). A quick search on Google for plane theft in Mexico yields only a story in the LA Times dating back to 2008. With drug cartels operating more like modern day supply chains piston aircraft can take their place among the old Ford pickups that were used to ferry bushels of marijuana back and forth. Why mess with a useful load of 1000 lbs when you are busy building your own submarines?

There is one other “innovation” that took place back in the 1980s, and for all the stupidity of some of the Mexican requirements, the Civil Air Authority did one very smart thing: they limited the sale of avgas to towered airports. This would have been a real disappointment to a backcountry pilot like myself but it probably saved general aviation in Mexico. Drug trafficking stopped almost overnight. In our naivete, we decided to stow away two empty jerry cans to extend our range but so successful is this Mexican regulation that when we landed to clear customs, the only things they wanted were those cans. “You must understand,” said Daniel, the Commandante at San Felipe, “off-airport refueling is how they moved contraband. So we take this very seriously.”

Crashed airplane

Abandoned airplanes and airports are still visible in Mexico.

At one time Baja had more than 250 aistrips. Many of these can still be seen from the air, including the remnants of palm-covered resorts that failed due to hurricanes, the decline in GA, or both. A few strips are disappearing into the dunes and we landed at several. For Baja still holds in abundance its lawless grit, which has captured the imagination of Hollywood, prospectors, writers and ranchers. Even Steinbeck chose Baja as the subject of one of his last books, The Log from the Sea of Cortez, lammenting “it would be good to live in a perpetual state of leave-taking, never to go nor to stay, but to remain suspended in that golden emotion of love and longing; to be loved without satiety.”

On this special 1000 mile spit of land, everything seems to be either on its way up or on its way down. The Transpeninsular, the highway that connects Cabo to San Diego, was built in the 1970s and was considered a state miracle. Before the construction of the road, Baja was so remote it was thought of more like an island. Mexico’s Hawaii, some say. This remoteness paired well with a Southern California culture shaped by the aerospace industry and post-war self-reliance. Pilots came looking for adventure.

We expected most of this to have disappeared. Long past were the Saturday night pig roasts in Mulege attended by John Wayne. The famous Serenidad Hotel where you could land a twin-engine Beechcraft on a dried marsh and taxi up to the bar. Self published books from San Diego and Los Angeles-based doctors spoke of houses that had private hangars, of landing at oases that would fill with mud so that when you departed you kept your gear down until you could land again at a paved airstrip and find a bucket for water.

I’m happy to report much of this, and more, is still available in Baja.

We flew every bay, remote island and oasis from the outlet of the Colorado River to the southern cape. We landed at the Serenidad Hotel and even found new resorts with active pilot communities. We landed on beach runways that terminated into hotel bars. We flew with our doors and windows open, wearing shorts and bikinis, over turquoise waters dotted with whales and dolphins. We shared stories with other pilots over margaritas at night and left for early morning hikes up arroyos with hot springs and fresh water pools to swim in. We never locked our plane and often just found planes secured with nothing more than bike locks.

Sleeping

Getting cozy in a Cub.

Our first leg from Idaho was to Las Vegas, which was unplanned due to headwinds that ground our speed down to 75 mph. “Three pairs of sunglasses and no underwear,” my companion said, frustrated to not have clothes that bridged the parkas and bikinis. We overnighted and used the time to call down to San Felipe Airport (Mexicali being another easy alternative) to confirm they had avgas and make sure they knew we were coming.

“Con gusto!” the Commandante said enthusiastically.

We departed Henderson the next morning VFR and quickly picked up the Colorado river, flying S-turns at low altitude. About 30 minutes north of the border we climbed to 2500 ft. and called Flight Service. They helped us file a flight plan en route, double checked we had the correct frequencies, and then handed us over briefly to Yuma for a squawk. Our chores behind us, the cockpit quieted and we flew on as if flying for a new world.

Far off in the distance a line appeared in the desert. On one side, verdant agricultural land of sparse settlement, and on the other, appearing as a kind of dystopian illusion, squalor mashed up against a dark line. We had reached the border. Houses and buildings crouched like flotsam, as if blown up from the distant sea on an invisible barrier. Beyond Yuma, the Colorado River spread out into an alluvial fan and eventually dumped its dark waters into the turquoise Sea of Cortez.

Yuma handed us off: “Contact San Felipe Approach on 118.5; at your altitude it might be a while before they hear you.”

For another twenty minutes we flew in silence. I thought about what the great dystopian author Cormac McCarthy said about the border at El Paso and Ciudad El Juarez, at the time the most dangerous city in the world. “I was sitting in a hotel room watching my young boy sleep. The trains were coming and going, and I thought to myself, the world won’t always look like this.”

We couldn’t pick anybody up on the radios so my co-pilot settled back down to near sea level, our balloon tires almost skimming the water surface. We aimed for a fisherman working a net off the rear of a panga, waving as we flew at eye level, doors and windows open. We breathed in the warm salty air. Unquestionably we were in a different country.

“Bievenidos a Mexico,” we finally heard on the radios, a greeting we won’t soon forget.

River

The views are hard to beat in a high wing airplane.

San Felipe Tower switched seamlessly to English and asked us to report at 10 mile increments. This is probably the first difference US pilots will notice. Tower communications always include distance (presumably because of the lack of radar) and it’s important that you follow their pattern orders correctly. We did not and we got a stern warning. Otherwise, radio communication in Mexico couldn’t be simpler.

San Felipe’s beautiful 5000-foot runway stretched out into the desert. We were told to enter a left downwind and then directed to park at the base of the tower once landed. There was a Jet Ranger helicopter with cameras (San Felipe is the start of the Baja 1000) and a Katmai 182 on the apron. Thanks to my female PIC flying at the controls of a bush plane, we were ensured a small welcoming ceremony. Machine gun toting men in fatigues sauntered up, eager for a photo. From the crowd a neatly uniformed Commandante stepped forward and introduced himself as Daniel, who I had spoken with the day before. Daniel was a pilot himself and spoke impeccable English.

We entered the terminal and made our way through a series of people sitting at desks taking various fees, which seemed to accumulate in $5 dollar increments. Receipts were given and each one pointed us down the line until we arrived at the Commandante’s office. Daniel was a wealth of information but mostly helped settle our anxiety. He filled out all our paperwork, including a flight plan (required between towered airports) and we were done in about 15 minutes. “I’m not going to a towered airport,” I said looking at my flight plan for Loreto. “Exactly,” Daniel said. “But eventually you will need fuel. So I put in the next towered airport. In Mexico, what you do in between airports is your own business.”

I was starting to see the functional beauty of Mexico’s bureaucracy.

Navigating Baja by air is pretty simple when you are limited to 46 gallons of fuel. You stick to the coasts and the coasts are where the airports are. We took an intersection departure at San Felipe, banked low over the town, and then flew south along the shore. It was unnerving at first not having our familiar ForeFlight map so we unplugged everything and just focused on flying. Steinbeck must have sensed this freedom when he wrote in his logbook, “the compass simply represents the ideal, present but unachievable, and sight-steering a compromise with perfection which allows your boat to exist at all.”

Beach

This is the Mexico many pilots come for.

Your first stop south along the Sea of Cortez will be exactly what you hoped for in a Baja flying experience: a crescent strip of white beach holding a translucent bay, dotted with a few fishing shacks and a small hotel at the north end. This is Bahia de los Angeles and those shacks are mostly owned by current or former pilots. No surprise there are several landing options, including one on the beach itself (though supposedly closed). We taxied right up to the hotel, drank an espresso but resisted diving into the ocean. We still had to make Mulege.

The oasis of Mulege is one of the best known in all of Baja. Unfortunately it has taken several beatings by chubascos or hurricanes. There is still a robust community of extranjeros (foreigners) that hang on but property prices here trade at significant discount compared to the rest of Baja. Chief among the several institutions is the grand Hotel Serenidad, mentioned earlier. This is probably the greatest fly-in resort in all of Mexico. Even though its raucous days are behind it, it has aged with grace and the staff make you feel like you’ve earned your own photo among the many that cover its walls.

Flying in, the main airport (now out of use) is easy to spot on the north side of the estuary. We had to circle the town several times before we convinced ourselves that the dried marsh at the mouth of the river was actually “El Gallito,” the hotel’s airstrip. We dragged it north to south, waking both cows and the military outpost. It was hard to imagine light twins using this airpstrip, but at the hotel bar there’s a photo of a C-130 taking off. Perhaps the tall palms have had time to recover.

We taxied right up to the beautiful white stucco arch proudly announcing the hotel and shut down. A small cohort from the army hut walked over with video cameras and clipboards—all standard procedure we learned. They asked for our licenses and where we came from and where we were headed. Our few bags were briefly searched. One soldier asked how much the plane cost before wishing us a buen viaje.

We settled into the wicker chairs at La Serenidad and watching the sunset were overcome with a sense of accomplishment. We had flown our small Cub from the winter of Idaho to the perpetual summer of Baja Mexico. The walls of the Serenidad spoke through hundreds of framed photos: of the parties, the planes and of an era when self-reliance and do-it-yourself confidence was more common. The staff was grateful to see us. They washed our plane and made sure there was always perfect guacamole and cold beers nearby.

La Serenidad

La Serenidad is a classic Baja fly-in hotel.

The next morning we took a run on the beach, working out the previous day’s flight and perhaps one too many margaritas. (There’s a saying in Spanish: “one is not enough; two is too many; don’t ask me about the third.”) My co-pilot preferred what they say in Argentina: “A la mesa y a la cama, se llama una vez” (to the table and to the bed, you call them only once.”)

The military was back at the plane waiting for us and we signed some logs but otherwise didn’t really understand this formality. We preflighted the plane for signs of cow and goat interference and departed to the south. The flight between Mulege and Loreto is perhaps the most picturesque of all with large inland bays, offshore islands, and remote beaches. The water is shallow and clear enough to read a paper through.

By this point we were down to a few gallons of fuel so we were eager to get to Loreto. As with San Felipe, they asked us to report inbound in increments of 10 miles but this time we found a first class airport with a lot of private jet traffic. Loreto represents the first colonial foothold in Baja and its central square could appear just about anywhere in Latin America—or a Marquez novel. Still, it’s small and seems quite apart from the remoteness of Baja.

We took a taxi into town for the night and ate a hearty marisco soup with poblano pepper-spiced margaritas. It was a Saturday night and the malecon, or boardwalk along the sea, was alive with music, vendors, and parading cars. We walked along hand-in-hand towards a building moon.

When we returned to the airport the FBO the next day, the staff had our flight plan already prepared to La Paz. We could have easily skipped the commercial stop at Baja’s capital city but we wanted to top off for fuel as this was a constant worry. As it turned out, La Paz was the most difficult of airports to navigate. It receives a large amount of commercial traffic. While the fuel is cheap, its bureaucracy is bloated and we found ourselves rushing around, having to chase the fuel truck down, find the flight planning office, and paying the various charges. In the end we only picked up 10 gallons of fuel (which later we would make good use of) but it took us almost an hour. We were glad to be on our way.

Police

Flying in Mexico often means dealing with welcoming committees… and paperwork.

Our next stop was Punta Pescadero, a fly-in resort still in its prime. Thanks to a group of Mexican investors who are also pilots, we got to see what flying in Mexico during its general aviation heyday might have looked like. Here we met a dapper couple that flew in on their Cessna 421 from Lake Tahoe. They deplaned in fedoras and heels. We were eager to know who they were so we looked for them at the bar and spent the evening with them dining poolside and talking about flying in Mexico. Turns out they were frequent guests and for thirty years they had been flown all over Central America, even with their young daughters.

We had a few days of downtime planned so we decided to rent four-wheelers and use Punta Pescadero as a base to explore what’s known as the East Cape of Baja. This is a special side of the peninsula that sits east of Cabo and slightly north. It’s a marine sanctuary and offers world class snorkeling (one of the islands is named after Jacques Cousteau). Punta Pescadero is a 5000 ft. paved runway with a small community of pilots, some whose houses have attached hangars. While more than one home has been seized by the Mexican government (presumably drug related), we met part-time residents from Ireland and even our native Idaho. South of Punta Pescadero, other less fortunate fly-in resorts abound and we had a great time landing at several strips that had been partly reclaimed by the sand dunes. There’s even a Four Seasons hotel going up, which stood in juxtaposition to the old fishing resorts that still dot this coastline—all with their own airstrips.

It was time for our long journey back north. Because of the cub’s limited fuel capacity, we were forced to retrace our route but an alternative would have been to fly the Pacific side, stopping in Guerrero Negro to see the whales. There are fly-in resorts alive and well per other reports and flyers we saw posted. Our journey was 2000 miles from Idaho to the southern tip of Baja. It took us 10 days and maybe a few thousand dollars. We had several days of no flying at all. We kite surfed, mountain-biked and sat in hot springs.

Our last night was staying back at the Serenidad and when I went to make our log entry to the hotel airstrip registrar, our entry of ten days earlier still stood as the most recent. I thought to myself that this place, empty as it was, might not be here the next time we came. Then I read the entry above ours, and it was a generation 4 Cirrus SR22T—a million dollar plane. Maybe it’s just a different kind of person that will take up the baton of general aviation. After all, Steinbeck said it best:

“Men really do need sea-monsters in their personal oceans.”

Peterson Conway
Latest posts by Peterson Conway (see all)
27 replies
  1. Enderson Rafael
    Enderson Rafael says:

    Wonderful! Well written, inspiring. That’s the beauty of GA, something I savored several times in the past, but want to become the norm in the future. Very nice trip, and the Xcub seams like a nice way to do it too. Thank you for sharing, Peterson! This kind of story keeps my dreams alive.

    Reply
  2. John Sapienza
    John Sapienza says:

    What a great story. Love the descriptions of the bureaucracy and how you guys successfully navigated it all! Where’s the next adventure?

    Reply
  3. Brad Amador
    Brad Amador says:

    Great story and writing. I’m also an aspiring writer, and studying for my PPL after retiring from a career in IT, and hoping to rekindle my adventurous spirit. I grew up yearning to fly in the military, only to find that because I wore glasses that I was ineligible. I ended up serving in the Marine Corps for a short three years (no deployments), and did travel the world on various IT contracts, flying a lot, but always had my dream of flying my own plane intact…I hope to travel to Mexico and other places and live my own dreams out..

    Reply
  4. Chris Bowman
    Chris Bowman says:

    You brought back many good memories of sailing a 21 foot boat down the east coast of Baja from Bahia LA to Mulege in 1979. I saw a Cessna 170 on it’s nose at LA and will never forget the beautiful red open cockpit biplane at Punta San Francisquito. Got me thinking of flying my Cessna 172 to revisit the Sea of Cortez. Thanks for the great article.

    Reply
  5. Arturo Guerra
    Arturo Guerra says:

    Thanks for the story Peterson. I am a Mexican pilot from Monterrey, Mexico. I fly a Carbon Cub SS and will be making the same trip but in reverse next September. (From Mexico to Idahoe with a big group of Cubs). Any idea of what to expect on the forest fires and all the smoke ? Thanks again.

    Reply
    • Pam
      Pam says:

      Arturo, the fires are bad, but not as bad as they were 4-5 years ago. It’s Smokey but that makes beautiful sunrises and sunsets! Stop in Utah on your way! KBTF is my home airport… we have a terrific “Back Country Pilot’s Association “!

      Reply
  6. George Stobaugh
    George Stobaugh says:

    One of the best stories I’ve read in years. As an aging pilot who will never have an adventure as written, it was as though I was a copilot on the trip. Your article reminded me that one needs to always look ahead to enjoy life and and to savor the past. Just remember, one new adventure is just around the next corner. Best wishes to you on your next one.

    Reply
  7. Ruben Andrews
    Ruben Andrews says:

    All in all a fun jaunt south of the border.
    The Baja Bush Pilots is based in Mesa Arizona. Membership is a startlingly low $49/year and includes many benefits, a bargain, even for one trip south of the border. The extremely convenient portal for filing eAPIS submittals alone is worth the cost of membership.

    Restricting aviation fuel to tower controlled airports was not such a good thing. Neither was trenching and closing un-permitted strips. Many folks believe the trenching was done to create the perception that the drug interdiction money Mexico received from the USA was put to good use when in fact it did nothing to interrupt drug traffic. The mid-peninsular fuel stops like Rancho Santa Yñez and San Franciscito were lost as a result.

    What you do between towered airports is your own business but it’s misleading to suggest landing anywhere you wish is ok. The military enforces airport use and sadly, landing at un-permitted strips, off airport locations and beaches these days can get your plane impounded.

    T’would be good to mention the 406 Mz ELT requirement and the eAPIS filing for border crossing.

    Reply
    • Pam Nichols
      Pam Nichols says:

      Hi Ruben! I’m planning a move to AZ now… when do you all meet? Website? I’d love to meet some local GA folks who have an adventurous attitude!

      Reply
  8. Tom Navar
    Tom Navar says:

    Having initiated my Baja experience in the late ’60s, I much enjoyed your story. Aviation then was much more loose and free. I fondly recall landing at desolate beaches up and down the peninsula in my 180. Self-reliance was the byword, and was aided by a rolled-up Zodiac with a 5 Hp motor in the back, a Hawaiian sling and snorkeling gear, camping gear, and basic tools. Living and loving off the bounty of the Pacific was idillic, and simple. Nights at Punta Malarrimo were spent under mind-bending starry skies, while the bull Gray Whales huffed and puffed outside of the hyper saline lagoons where the cows were birthing. On leaving the shallows, the females in calf heat were set upon by the males, for the continuation of the species; before heading to Northern waters.
    I miss the adventures; thank you for reigniting my long-dormant fire.

    Reply
  9. Adib Barsoum
    Adib Barsoum says:

    Thanks for the article. It brought back a lot of memories.
    Back in the 70s I used to fly my Aztec from Pennsylvania to Punta Pescadero to fish for striped marlin. We stopped overnight in El Paso then on to Hermosillo where we cleared Mexican customs. That was before the airstrip at Punta was paved and before they had residential properties. I have fond memories of Hotel Serenidad in Mulege . . Also Hotel Finisterra in Cabo San Lucas, one of only two hotels there at the time with no paved streets and a fish canning plant whose whistle woke us up in the morning. I also remember La Paz, a sleepy little town with restaurants serving tortuga and abalone, now illegal.
    I never locked the plane or worried about theft. The people were invariably friendly and helpful and I always enjoyed partying with them.
    Thanks again for a great article.

    Reply
  10. Pam Nichols
    Pam Nichols says:

    Oh my gosh! Best story I’ve read in years. I’m dying to go south in my 206… you actually made me believe it is possible! Thanks!

    Reply
  11. Tom
    Tom says:

    What a wonderful adventure and so well written. Not being so bold myself, I really enjoyed your sharing the details of your trip. Thanks for putting this old pilot in the right seat (tandem in your case) next to you on your amazing journey.

    Reply
  12. David Laird
    David Laird says:

    Loved your tale of adventure down the east coast of Baja, My son & I rode our motos along the same track you flew. Fond memories of Mulegé and the Hotel Serenidad. We stayed there right after a hurricane and the high water mark was still visible in our room. Fished for Yellowtail with a local guide. The chef at Hotel Serenidad coked one of them for us. We shared it with a couple of new friends, pilots from San Diego flying a Cessna Skymaster. Great experience and adventure. Thanks for bringing back some fantastic memories!

    Reply
  13. Clive Smith
    Clive Smith says:

    Fabulous story. I love Baja and to fly it for me is only a dream. But thanks for taking is on the ride with you I truly felt the warmth and the tides. Very well written.
    Cheers.

    Reply
  14. Dale D
    Dale D says:

    I enjoyed the creative writing and the romantic adventure experiences, especially since you weren’t victimized. I also appreciated that the trip planning was only 2 days and the Google search for stolen airplanes in Mexico was quite superficial. A little extra research could have been telling. No Mexico doesn’t have a system or obligation to report crimes like aviation theft. Had you made your trip in a Cessna 206, the friendly federalale may have turned his head, and not noticed who stole your plane off the airport ramp. The Baja is not as populous nor as crime infested as the non-peninsula of Mexico, but still worth understanding the ruling criminal element. I’ve worked years throughout Mexico and I’ve seen many aviation thefts from cartel soldiers. A tourist is always a happy camper until he is a victim. So I’m very glad to hear your experience was enchanted.

    Reply
  15. Vic Myev
    Vic Myev says:

    Thanks for re-kindling some great memories! We flew to Mateos with a friend of ours in his SR22T on March 4 2018. He’s a dentist and periodically flies to Mateos and other towns to do pro-bono dental work. After some whale-watching, on the way back, we stopped at Hotel Serenidad for a couple of very enjoyable nights. There were a couple of big-tire Cubs, an L-19, and several twins parked on the ramp (no C-130s!). Hope to do it again some day!

    Reply
  16. Dan Fregin
    Dan Fregin says:

    Back in ’78 or ’79 I flew a C-206 for a business owner in Norther California who needed a contract signed by a contractor vacationing on the beach at Bahia Los Angeles. Rolled out sleeping bags on the sand and next day flew up to the town for fuel and lunch. Taxied to the cafe (closed that day) remembered one of few words from high school Spanish in 1965 (papeles ?, papers), showed some papers to a kid in a military uniform which he understood not a word of, got fuel and went to a canteena at the other end of the strip. While there, two guys in a VW bus asked if they could buy some gas since the town was out of auto gas and wouldn’t sell them avgas to get to the next town. There was a bit of a rise between us and the federale, so we did. Now we go airline to Cabo every January for 20+ years http://www.thefriggin.com

    Reply
  17. Ken Brandt
    Ken Brandt says:

    Back in June 1979 my wife and I embarked on a two-week trip from Livermore, CA all the way around the tip of Baja in our 1968 Cessna 150. We would not be able to make that same trip today with fuel now only available at towered airports. Our longest flight segments were no longer than 200 miles to give us some options in case the dirt strip we landed at was out of fuel. If necessary we could take off and log another 100 miles to another airstrip to see if fuel was available. GA aircraft were plentiful and we figured we could pay another pilot to siphon five gallons if necessary. We stayed at Hotel Serenidad, Punta Pescadero, Hotel Spa Buena Vista, Palmilla Hotel, and Oasis in Loreto. None of the hotels had locks on the room doors. Needless to say, we landed at many other airports, mostly unpacked. Your border crossing sounded just like ours so many years ago – many bureaucrats with an open desk drawer filled with $5 bills that suggested your entry into the country might be expedited if you added your own cash to their drawer. It was a flying adventure of a lifetime, even in a lowly Cessna 150!

    Reply
  18. Alston Beinhorn
    Alston Beinhorn says:

    May there be more Fedoras and high heels in GA. Appreciated the Steinbeck too on an interesting trip.

    Reply
  19. Dave Novotny
    Dave Novotny says:

    A great article. It brought back many memories. In the mid-60’s, I was growing up in San Diego and had the privilege of flying into Baja with Arnold Senterfitt, who wrote “the book” on flying in Baja. It was great fun flying right seat in his Cessna 195 to places like LA Bay snd the Meling Ranch. Thanks for bringing back those memories. Those flights inspired me to get my license when I was 20.

    Reply

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