Down in beautiful Baja is a magical place that barely registers on Google maps. An oasis in the Mexican desert, Guadalupe Canyon is home to salt flats, hot springs, elusive bighorn sheep and formidable boulders with the ancient markings of water long gone.

Some friends were going for New Year's. Did we want to go with?

Did we?

Could we?

Was it safe?

What might happen if we go?

What might we miss if we don't?

Our friends were leaving on Sunday — at 5 a.m.

Was it a good idea to go anywhere at 5 a.m.?

It was Saturday morning, and we were still on the fence. Neither my guy nor I has 4WD — a requirement to get where we were going. I have a tiny tent that holds my two dogs and me snugly, but adding a 6-foot-1 surfer dude would just not do. And the surfer doesn't even own a sleeping bag, having long ago surrendered to the creature comforts that come standard with a roof and indoor plumbing.

But my main concern was the dogs. I knew we'd be able to get them into Mexico, but would we be able to get them out?

I called the vet.

"If you can be here at 11:30, the doctor can examine them and, assuming they're healthy, issue the international health certificates you'll need to get them back into the U.S."

It was 11:23. "I'll be there."

I rush in at 11:45, running on adrenaline and rationalizing my rudeness with calculations of all the time I've lost sitting in their waiting room. Hours of my life! They can wait on me for once.

I sign in. "So sorry I'm late," I say apologetically. "Traffic."

The health exams are basic.

How is their energy?

Any itchiness?

Changes in appetite?

Teeth? Check. Ears? Check. Heart rate? Check.

"OK. I'll just take their temp and we're all set," said the vet.

I have two dogs: a blonde longhaired dachshund who conducts himself in accordance with the fanciness of his dress, and a salt-and-pepper wirehaired terrier who comports himself with the coarseness of his.

The dachshund was up first. In went the thermometer, the dachshund's face registering the invasion with a dignified puff of his cheeks.

It was the terrier's turn. The fluorescent lights, the cold metal table, the stranger wielding the glass stick who seemed dangerously fixated on his backside. The only question in the terrier's mind: Fight, or flight?

For anyone who thinks little dog, little fight, think again. The terrier is 10 pounds of fleet-footed agility. He squirmed, wiggled and writhed, nimbly defying the grasp of his assailants. When the enemies persisted, he invoked the sounds of a child in need of exorcism. And when all else failed, out came the teeth — which prompted the summoning of two large vet techs and one itty-bitty muzzle. It took three specially trained humans and a swath of nylon, but the terrier — mortified, indignant, taken from behind without permission — was at last determined to be running at the appropriate temp.

Ten minutes later and $500 lighter, I left with two USDA-certified healthy dogs and the paperwork to prove it. I sealed the hard-won certificates in an envelope and texted the surfer to meet me at REI.

We rang in the new year from a hot spring in the middle of the Mexican desert. We drank champagne, and the stars shone as bright as our futures.

We drove home on New Year's Day. No one asked for the dogs' papers. That envelope, still sealed, now lives in my glovebox — a reminder that sometimes our resistance to the details is the only thing keeping us from our next great adventure.

Follow Jessica on Twitter @sicaleigh. To find out more about Jessica Leigh, and to read features by other Creators writers and comics, visit the Creators website at www.creators.com.