Author: Juan

Thou shalt not spend more than eight years without visiting the holy land that witnessed thy birth. Not sure if that’s one of the commandments, but if it is, I was about to become a sinner (notwithstanding extenuating circumstances in the form of a global pandemic). So, I went ahead and bought us about six tons of CO₂ worth of airline tickets (sorry, Earth).

Now, since there’s a very nice country between California and Chile where
my childhood friend and his lovely Brazilian wife happen to live, we made a stop in Brasilia, Brazil’s capital. (I know, I know, Brazil is not exactly on the way, but it’s not in the opposite direction either, okay?).

Brazil: Minas Gerais and Bahia

Sensibly, we were all tempted to drive to the beach to escape dull Brasilia. Problem was, Brasilia is pretty much in the geographical center of the fifth largest country in the world. In other words, fricking far from the ocean. Fortunately, my friend, who’s as smart as he is crazy, anticipated that there would be some doubts about the practicality of such endeavor, and had the foresight of proving that it was doable… by doing it. Singlehandedly. So, just a couple of weeks earlier he took his car and drove 18 hours non-stop to Ilhéus, Bahia, spent a few days at the beach, and drove back.

Since he could do it by himself, we thought, if it’s four of us who can drive, then why not add a 6-hour southward detour in order to go to Ouro Preto, a colonial town I’ve always wanted to visit. And why go to the closest beach when we could drive 50 more miles (80 km) on a horrendous dirt road to go to a secluded one. And since at that point we were only four hours from Trancoso, which called me back ever since I came in the eighties, then why not go there as well. And why not add a 6-hour northward detour on the way back for a stop at the Chapada Diamantina, always listed among the top national parks to visit in Brazil. Yeah, why not.

Chapada Diamantina

The good, the bad and the ugly of Brazil

The good: its joyful, affectionate people. The immense variety of exotic fruits. The comida à quilo: it’s like a buffet meal, except that your plate is weighed at the end of the line and you pay for what you put on your plate. I like the system.

The bad: sugar in your coffee! You have to specifically request no sugar, and even then, some places just don’t have it: coffee simply comes prepared with sugar… how outrageous! Also, the speed bumps. They are not built to slow you down, they are built so that you have to come to an almost complete stop if you don’t want to destroy your car (and your brain against your skull). They call them quebramolas, or strut wreckers, for a reason, but since some are in the most unexpected places and barely marked, they should be called heart attack makers.

The ugly: Bolsonaristas’ utter disregard for democracy with their banners calling for the army to stage a coup to “save the country”.

Trancoso then and now

I came to the idyllic town of Trancoso some 38 years ago. My then-girlfriend and a friend were camping in Porto Seguro, Bahia, in what was the peak of an extremely low-budget hitchhiking trip we took across Argentina, Uruguay, and Brazil. That’s when we heard for the first time about Trancoso, a small, remote, free-spirit community about 30 km to the south, and decided to go on a day trip to check it out. And that’s how one morning we took the ferry to Arraial d’Ajuda, the town across the Buranhém River from Porto Seguro, and from there we walked and hitchhiked the rest of the way, along an unfrequented dirt road that ran more or less parallel to the coastline. A discarded coconut we found on the way, its water already consumed but still with a fairly thick layer of meat inside, became our meal for the rest of the day.

We fell in love with Trancoso: the laid-back atmosphere, the people’s friendliness, the sense of community, and last but not least, the nudist beach. We felt we had barely gotten a taste of the place when it came time to head back if we wanted to have any chance of riding the day’s last ferry back to Puerto Seguro. “Screw the ferry”, we said and stayed until dusk. The night — a warm, stormy, moonless one — fell on us when we were tracing our steps back along the same road we came in. We had dense jungle on both sides of the road, and the noise from all sorts of critters was deafening. Magically so. It was amazing for me, although not so much for my girlfriend, who was terrified.

Some good soul took us in his car part of the way back to Arraial d’Ajuda, where we spent the rest of the night wandering along the town’s streets and enjoying the live music some bars offered (all from the outside, as we had no budget to consume anything). We then killed a few more hours just sitting there, exhausted, until the ferry resumed its service in the morning.

Today, 38 years later, Trancoso is an entirely different village. It became a chic place for the rich and famous who fool themselves into buying a piece of authentic life. It’s full of boutique pousadas, the tranquility ruined by traffic that does not fit its narrow streets, the beaches blocked by clubs and restaurants and big houses. As BrazilBeyondRio.com states, “this elegant little beachside town didn’t even have electricity until 1986, not that you’d ever know it today. Trancoso was once so isolated that Brazil changed its currency and the locals didn’t even realise. […] Beyoncé, Leonardo di Caprio, Gisele Bündchen and Naomi Campbell have all spent time holidaying here, and CNN journalist Anderson Cooper is one of Trancoso’s best known residents.” Yikes! I should have read that before coming!

Chile: Atacama

After getting ourselves reacquainted with loved ones in Santiago, we took a six-day trip to San Pedro de Atacama, an intriguing little town at the foot of the Andes Mountains that serves as a gateway to explore the breathtaking region. The Atacama Desert is known as the driest place on earth, so much so that some weather stations have never registered rainfall at all.

When it comes to conveying magnificence I’m better behind my camera than my keyboard, so I’ll shut up and leave you with the following pictures.

The good, the bad and the ugly of Chile

The good: Santiago’s extensive subway network. Modern, clean, fast, convenient. I’ve always been a fan of it.

The bad: Santiago’s air quality. I’m not used to not seeing the mountains in December, hidden behind a thick layer of smog.

The ugly: Santiago’s aggressive drivers. In this part of the world the turn signal is taken as a declaration of war: “you want to cut me off… over my dead body!”. You’ll be more successful if you merge without announcing it (and then optionally you can use the turn signal once you have control of your new position, so that no one can fault you for not signaling).

El Tatio then and now

Almost forty years ago I traveled to the Norte Grande, or Great North, for a second summer in a row because a malfunctioning camera ruined most of my pictures the year before. I was so mad I wanted a re-do. Or an out-do, since this second time I was determined to visit El Tatio, which wasn’t as easy as it is today, particularly with the budget of a college student.

El Tatio, as I now know, is the third largest geyser field in the world, with almost 10% of the planet’s thousand or so geysers. The largest is Yellowstone with about a half, and second is the Valley of Geysers in Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula, with roughly 10%.

So, not yet twenty years old and fixated with seeing a geyser for the first time in my short life, I got as close as I could by public transportation and found myself in the tiny highland village of Caspana, 3300m (10800ft) above sea level, and just a couple hundred inhabitants.

I got some fruit at a modest stand and asked the owner if he knew the way to El Tatio. It turns out that he did, and he even graciously drew me a map with the trails I had to take before connecting with the truck road at the very end. I never knew if I just lucked out or it was common for Caspanians to both have that knowledge and be so patient with complete strangers.

I put my freshly acquired apples in my backpack and off I went, mostly along a riverbed, to meet those mysterious geological contraptions, still a good thousand meters higher. It took me two days, during which I didn’t see another soul.

Once there I was warmly received by the solitary guard looking after the dorms and machinery left after various failed attempts to harvest geothermal energy. A friendly nortino craving for companionship, he let me use the facilities, including a bed and a marvelous pool that fed from a hot spring. I spent two or three days there, with all the geysers just for my eyes only, immersed in a fascinating experience that marked me deeply. Had I known back then that I had before me, and all for myself, one tenth of all the geysers in the world I would have been even more mesmerized.

Sadly, I don’t remember the guard’s name, but in spite of him being twice my age we kept in touch for years by mail. Real, actual, slow, pen-and-paper mail, if you are old enough to remember it. He always addressed his letters to “amigo caminante”.

Unlike Trancoso, El Tatio hasn’t changed much in 40 years. It’s the same playful geysers with the same solemn backdrop of mountains that go 6000m high, the unflappable adults looking after the boisterous kids. But the experience feels very different as it lacks that spiritual, transformative power. And that’s because there’s no sense of accomplishment when you get there in an “adventure” truck with reclining seats, there’s no peace when the delicate music of the geysers is distorted by the noise of a thousand-strong crowd, there’s no timelessness if they tell you that you have 30 minutes to enjoy the place.

Instead of taking it as a loss, I just feel even more fortunate of having lived that once-in-a-lifetime experience which is now simply unrepeatable. If my memory allows, I will treasure it for another 40 years.

I don’t expect you to remember this, but a year ago Kathy “planned to do one week of Washington’s Pacific Crest Trail, but even that plan had to be cut short because of a storm”. Since then she’s had an eye on the thirty-something miles she couldn’t do last year: the Goat Rocks Wilderness. And she’s been pestering me to go with her.

In spite of all her persuasiveness, I had only agreed to act as her external support (just as a year ago), and to a day hike to accompany her at the beginning of her adventure. And that’s because I’m done carrying a heavy backpack. I’ve done enough of that grueling shit and just don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t even have a backpack nor any of the required paraphernalia (other than my trusty but heavy sleeping bag).

My resistance lasted only until she played the nuclear option: she offered to carry all the load. I could not decline anymore. Wait! No, it’s not what you are thinking! I was not going to let her carry all the weight! But the fact that she was really willing to do that showed me how much she wanted me to go with her. So I agreed to do the first day and first night with her (provided she took care of all the logistics, including borrowing a backpack and a mat for me; I’m not that easy, alright?).

Later on I figured that, more than my charming company, what she really wanted was my camera (and, okay, someone decently skilled behind it). That was mildly disappointing, but at about the same time I read in her PCT guide that the Goat Rocks Wilderness was the most spectacular section of the PCT, which evened things out: “deserved reputation for grandeur”, “jagged ridges and subalpine hillsides teeming with dancing creeks and fragrant wildflower meadows”, “the PCT stretch you’ll never forget”.

So, long story short, we drove 800 miles to Walupt Lake, I hiked with Kathy the first 8 miles to camp number one, I came back the next day to the van, and I picked her up two days later at her exit point at White Pass. She obviously provided room and board: took care of the tent and meals for her illustrious guest.

One problem was that, with that reputation, The Goat Rocks Wilderness is a very popular area for short-distance hikers. In addition, there’s the long-distance hikers who are doing the entire 2,650 miles of the PCT converging to Washington at this time of the year. So, don’t expect much solitude. You’ll see other souls every few minutes, and camp mere feet from other hikers. On the other hand… you get to meet interesting people, such as the amputee with a prosthetic leg who was at mile 2,270 of his PCT hike, or the friendly young couple who had spent 5 months on the trail (and were not done yet).

The other problem was that, judging by her pictures with a lowly cell phone, the portion that Kathy did without me seems to be even more spectacular than the part I did. I’m afraid I’ll have to be back next summer with my camera and sleeping bag to do “The Spine” (the trail you see on the right side of Kathy’s picture below).

After a full year of a joyful alliance with Ñu, it was time for yet another pilgrimage to her cradle in Montana: we wanted some upgrades and fixes, and there’s no one better to do that job than the shop that converted Ñu into the versatile beast she is. Since the situation was reminiscent of our multiple trips to Maine years ago, during Ñandú’s gestation, Ada came up with calling Montana “the new Maine”. As usual, we made a big trip out of an errand, and visited five states, two provinces, and a bunch of national parks.

Nevada

Adventure started earlier than anticipated. The second day. On our previous trip to Montana we had discovered a wonderful half-way stop to spend the night: 12-mile Hot Springs, so called because it’s located 12 miles north of Wells, Nevada. The only downside is that the last section of the road is the worst I’ve ever driven on. Okay, the second worst, after one in Costa Rica, but that one was a different kind of bad (42 kilometers, twelve rivers, and zero bridges… actually, one bridge, but it was safer not to use it) . This one was… let me see how can I describe it. Start with your standard dirt road. Throw a grenade here and there every few feet. Wait for a few cycles of rain and sun, and voilà, you’d get something similar. I knew it was passable on a high-clearance 4WD, because I’d done it before. Let me rephrase: I knew it was passable as long as it was dry, and it was dry on our way there.

Because it was Saturday of a long weekend (an oversight on our end—we had no necessity of starting our travels on Memorial Day weekend), there were several trucks going up, so we decided to set up camp half a mile before the springs, rest, and hike to the hot pools very early in the morning. As we hoped, there was nobody at 6am. What we didn’t expect was to find a war zone in terms of trash: beer cans (both empty and full), pieces of clothing including cowboy boots, a cell phone, and many other items.

It didn’t look like the welcoming place we remembered, but the water was clean and gloriously hot for that cold morning. We enjoyed the place to ourselves for almost one hour, until a truck parked almost on top of the pool. Two young men got off, disheveled, shirtless, barefoot, and moving slowly and tentatively, exactly as you would when you are suffering from a hungover. They were looking for a wallet, as we later learnt.

“Were you here last night?” Kathy asked them.

“Unfortunately” responded one.

“You didn’t have a good time?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Are you going to clean this up?”

“Yes, we will” they promised, with a voice that reflected shame and resignation.

They soon found the wallet. On the truck’s bed.

During our walk back to the van it started raining. And then hailing. Uh-oh. Yeah, that’s what transformed a terrible but negotiable road into an almost impassable slippery inferno. I’ll spare you most of the details, but the drive back was very scary. The wheels had almost no traction and the van was as likely to go sideways as forward. On one occasion only three wheels were on the ground, the other about two feet in the air. On another, a post of the barbed wire fence that sided the road stopped the van from skidding off the road. It took us a while to extricate Ñu from that mess. The van has now a war scar to show.

Since then, we had rain (or snow) every day of our trip for almost four weeks.

Idaho

I’m only including Idaho because I like this picture (which we owe to my small bladder).

Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming

Our great friend and top fan of this blog hosted and pampered us for a couple of days in her home in Jackson. She has such an amazing playground right out her door. (Hi, Donna!)

Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming

The same month a year ago Yellowstone received almost one million visitors. While the park is huge, that’s still a whole lot of people crowding campgrounds, parking lots and trails. We had initially resigned ourselves to just quickly drive through the park on our way to Montana. Just on a hunch, two days before, I checked if by chance there was any campsite available due to cancellations. Absolutely nothing. Two hours later my hunch was still there, so I checked again, and there were two sites available on two different campgrounds for the two nights we wanted to stay, which I grabbed immediately.

Our strategy was to arrive at the campsite in the evening, set the alarm for 4:45am, and be behind the wheel by 5 (which is so easy with Ñu: wake up, pee, wash face, put some layers on, turn engine on, go). Visit a place or two at dawn with the park entirely to ourselves, and then choose a spectacular view to park and have breakfast, before the crowds started to show up en masse. It paid off handsomely.

Six days later the park shut down all of its entrances and evacuated tens of thousands of visitors because of the unprecedented floods caused by extreme weather that dumped a month’s worth of rain in a bit more than one day.

Bozeman, Montana

My fifth time here, but the first time I took time to explore. It’s a lively city, with great outdoor opportunities.

Glacier National Park, Montana

Glacier National Park—Montana’s jewel—did not disappoint, and provided the perfect scenery for some more wet adventures. We got meticulously ready for what was going to be a longish hike on a rainy day to Grinnell Lake, but the first attempt got cut very short on the news that there was a mama grizzly with her cub on the trail. (For those of you unfamiliar with bears, a grizzly is scary enough; a protective grizzly mother I’d rather avoid at all costs).

On the way back to the van to reconvene, we bumped into a very large group going out. They invited us to join them and enjoy safety in numbers. “We even have two rangers with us” they said, so we followed them. They were not going very far, though, but when they reached their destination four people, the two “rangers” among them, said they were going to the lake, so the six of us continued together. We never saw a trace of any ursus, but in bear territory we felt safer with rangers. In retrospect, even if their jackets and hats made them look like rangers, there were some dead giveaways that we didn’t make much of, such as the determination to go through harder and harder obstacles, but with little clarity on how to best proceed. Those obstacles included a rickety, partly submerged bridge, and a trail flooded with knee-deep freezing water, which would have likely stopped Kathy and me, had we been on our own. Bear in mind that we were under the effects of the same storm that caused all that damage in Yellowstone.

We had to turn around half a mile before the lake, because the last obstacle was insurmountable, even for our brave rangers: raging waters had wiped out the last bridge.

On our way back, while recounting all the craziness of the day, Kathy said to the two guys who were not dressed like rangers something like “we’re lucky we’ve had the rangers with us”. They were puzzled. “What rangers?”.

“Those two guys.”

“They are not rangers! They are our friends!”

Oh well. It was very nice to share the rain with those four young, friendly and energetic guys.

Banff National Park, Alberta

I don’t have words to describe the magnificence of Alberta’s landscape, so I’m not going to try. That’s why I take pictures anyway. It reminded us of Chilean Patagonia.

We were impressed by the care and respect for wilderness that Canadians profess. Among other things, roads across the parks are fenced to prevent road kills, with wildlife corridors over the road once in a while. They are also enlarging areas of the park that are entirely closed to human access.

British Columbia

No more rainy days! Warm and dry weather was a very welcome change.

Seattle, Washington

After a short visit to Kathy’s brother in Seattle we spent a few days in a forest in Oregon. Sorry, a graphical or written report about the adventures we had there do not belong in this blog, ha ha. That’s all for now folks. Stay tuned.

Ñu, our beloved camper van, is a one-fuel kind of affair: as long as there’s diesel in the tank, we have mobility thanks to its diesel-powered engine, we have heat thanks to its diesel-powered heater, and we have coffee and hot meals thanks to its fantastic diesel-powered cooker. Still, we’ve been carrying a camping stove as a back up, and also to cook outside on hot days… which we had never done until our trip to Big Sur and Carrizo Plain.

For reasons that I am unable to recall, I decided to use the camping stove to boil water for breakfast. We later left the campground for a few hours, but didn’t bother stowing the stove… after all, who’d steal stuff from a campsite? Well, it seems that an immaculate stove that has only been used to boil water in its maiden deed is too tempting for some people, because there was no signs of it when we came back. Stove 1: MIA. Or more precisely, missing after action.

Luckily, we still had our fantastic diesel cooktop, so at breakfast time next morning I went as usual… except that some weird and loud noises came from the cooker’s guts. I perused the manual, and to my horror I read that “In the event of unusual combustion noises […], it must not be reused until it has been inspected by an authorized technician”. Didn’t I just say it was a fantastic cooker? Oops. Stove 2: out of commission. But only after ignoring the manual for ten more minutes so that I could have my coffee.

Undeterred by my stove karma, that day, on our way to our next destination, we stopped at a Walmart to buy a camping stove. When it came the time to use it that night, I immediately regretted I went for the cheapest one: it required matches! Who in their right minds manufacture stoves without the ignition thinghy?! I guess Coleman does. Stove 3: inoperable (due to the operator’s lack of vision, I must admit). So, it was a cold-dinner night followed but a dreadful caffeine-free morning, followed by a trip to a convenience store to get a damn lighter.

Other than that, our latest road trips have been rather uneventful, so here you have some pictures to fill up the vast empty space below.