stories
a tale or two from the road and home
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DAYS 132-148 SOUTHERN CHILE
We haven’t planned much of this trip. We might have a broad idea of things we want to see or places we want to visit, but a lot of the time we’re flying by the seat of our pants, figuring things out a week or a even a day in advance. And it’s cool because it gives us freedom. The freedom to change our minds, to redirect our course on a whim. If we like a place - we stay, if we don’t - we get our butts on the next bus. We’re not in a rush to have it all figured out. We’ve let a lot of it surprise us along the way. And I for the most part, l really like surprises.
C H I L E B O R D E R C R O S S I N G
We haven’t planned much of this trip. We might have a broad idea of things we want to see or places we want to visit, but a lot of the time we’re flying by the seat of our pants, figuring things out a week or a even a day in advance. And it’s cool because it gives us freedom. The freedom to change our minds, to redirect our course on a whim. If we like a place - we stay, if we don’t - we get our butts on the next bus. We’re not in a rush to have it all figured out. We’ve let a lot of it surprise us along the way. And I for the most part, l really like surprises.
But sometimes the lack of planning can leave you in a pickle. Like when you arrive in a teeny tiny Argentinean border town (that is actually 7 miles from the border) at 4am. And there are no taxis. And you’ve got 100 pounds of camping and climbing gear stuffed into an extremely awkward-to-carry duffle and a couple of giant backpacks that might as well be filled with cement bricks.
And when that happens you really have no choice but to pick up your shit and walk. So we did. We walked and walked and walked along the desolate stretch of highway. And we watched the sun rise over a beautiful empty desert and gorgeous purple mountains, all the while complaining about our breaking backs and cursing every car that passed (and by every, I mean two or three) for totally ignoring our desperate, outstretched thumbs.
But, alas…three and a half hours later…we shuffled our weary little feet across the border and into Southern Chile. And my god there is so much to love about this place.
I love that the empanadas, which I didn’t think could get any better, did. I love that all the women grab you and kiss you on the cheek when they say hello, even if they have no idea who you are. I loved that we were constantly passing by lakes so filled with pigment, they prompted Brad to turn to me and say “Do you think we’ve seen every shade of blue there is?”
We’ve slowly made our way north little by little. Chile Chico to Puerto Rio Tranquilo to Cerro Castillo to Coyhaique to Puerto Aysen. Mostly in bouncy busses that stir up the roads and suck up the dust and spit it all over their passengers. So that when you arrive to wherever it is you’re going, you’re always covered in a thin, familiar layer of dirt.
We’ve stayed in a lot of really cool little towns. The kind that giant mountains wrap themselves around and chain grocery stores haven’t yet ruined. With populations like 300. Where you can forget luxuries like ATM’s or wifi and are forced to put your terrible Spanish into practice with men wearing crooked berets, fluffy mustaches and big leather belts wrapped around their Levis.
We’ve spent some time laying low and some time exploring. We floated through fantastically beautiful marble caves. We wandered into the woods for days at a time without enough food. We hitchhiked back to town and shoved giant hamburguesas covered in avocado (I also love that Chileans put avocado on everything) into our starving mouths.
We met up with friends. Drank lots of beers. Tried bike-packing for the first time through the insanely gorgeous and hellishly ginourmous hills…and despite the almost unbearable buildup of lactic acid in our quads, we had a blast.
Right now we’re sitting in the great room of a ferry that will take us through the the night, up through costal fjords and out of this beautiful region. I cannot wait to sit on the deck and say my goodbyes to the Patagonian stars for they are biggest and brightest and hang-down-in-your-face-iest I have ever seen. And I’m hoping I just might be able to burn their image into my memory.
Until next time.
-Kenze
DAYS 117 - 131 : ARGENTINA
Oh Argentina! The land of mouthwatering empanadas, six dollar bottles of Malbec and sky piercing, story book worthy mountains.
I mean, really…could it get any better??
FITZ ROY MASSIF MOUNTAIN RANGE - EL CHALTEN, ARGENTINA
Oh Argentina! The land of mouthwatering empanadas, six dollar bottles of Malbec and sky piercing, story book worthy mountains.
I mean, really…could it get any better??
We began our trip to South America by flying into Buenos Aires. And to preface this - we’re not city people. We don’t really dig crowds, traffic, loud unsettling noises – large groups of humans in general really. And after the onslaught of the former in places like Bangkok and Kathmandu – we had pretty much decided for the rest of our trip to avoid big cities like the plague. Thus, when booking our airfare our plan was to fly into BA and get the heck out as fast as we possibly could.
Buuuut thanks to a surprisingly serendipitous airline strike (apparently not all that uncommon around these parts) we were stranded in the city for a couple of days. And thank god. It ended up being an awesome little detour that I’m really glad we didn’t miss.
One of the things that I loved – is that people in South America get started late. Like way late. Like don’t even eat dinner until mayyybe 10pm. So during the day – everything is pretty quiet. It made strolling the streets in the afternoon a casual affair. It gave you a chance to peacefully soak in the old-world architecture and admire the colorful café’s and bodegas that nestled themselves along the sidewalks. We wandered into the coolest little markets and stuffed ourselves with empanadas and spent an afternoon reading in the sunshine in one of the corner parks. It was lovely.
But once we were finally able to iron out our airline debacle, we waved goodbye to Buenos Aires. It was time to get south. Next stop, Patagonia.
For all y’all who don’t know. And based on a majority of the questions I’ve gotten, I’d assume it’s more than a few – Patagonia isn’t a country. It’s a region making up the southern most parts of Argentina and Chile. And like you might imagine – it’s a place that is beyond your wildest dreams.
There are beautiful glacial rivers that snake through the countryside and dump themselves into gigantic crystal lakes. Desolate, arid fields of nothingness that allow wild horses and ostriches and guanacos (llama looking things) to make themselves at home. Blue lagoons filled with hot pink flamingos. Gigantic birds that circle through puffy white clouds. And the thinnest, pointy-est, craziest looking mountain ranges you have ever seen. That look like maybe once-upon-a-time some colossal giant reached down and pinched their peaks and pulled and pulled and pulled and pulled until they stretched into the air above – and got stuck there.
The weather here is a bi-polar tasmanian devil on crack. The wind roars and the rain appears whenever it damn well pleases and the forecasts are mere suppositions that I’m sure some poor weatherman is constantly being scorned for. There’s a lot of take your coat off, put your coat on again nonsense and your balance is constantly going up against hurricane style gusts, but when the sun peaks it’s head from behind the clouds it’s so beautiful that you pretty much forget all that.
We started in a gorgeous little place called El Calafate and made our way north to El Chalten – a small backpackers town known for its proximity to the insane looking Fitz Roy Massif Mountain Range.
We spent about ten days in El Chalten – admiring the scenery and doing quite a bit of backpacking – an activity that I’m still getting used to and constantly joke to Brad, must have been invented by people that love to suffer…
But as per usual, I must say, that while I have my limits, walking into the depths of a Patagonian national park for days at a time has its perks. Big ones. Like gazing upon the most beautiful things you have ever seen in your life. Like drinking water straight from the source of a melting glacier. Like being able to say you strapped yourself into a harness and dangled from a suspended cable in order to cross a raging river and lived to tell the tale.
So thank god for selective memory. And that feelings like hunger and annoyance and muscle cramps are fleeting. Because I know that in a few days we’ll be out on the trails again, lugging those damn packs – in search of some new place that will no doubt make my eyeballs pop out of my head in awe.
As for right now, we’re waiting to catch a 10-hour bus up to Los Antiguos where we’ll cross the border into Chile. And I suppose if you have to spend 10 hours in any moving vehicle, you’d want it to be some place where the view from the windows is entertainment alone.
Until next time.
-Kenze
HONEYMOON PART TWO: BUT FIRST, A DEDICATION
I had a friend. Ugh. The past tense thrusts itself hard, into the deepest pit of my stomach. But I did. I had a friend. She wasn’t the kind of friend that I had spent my childhood with, or met for coffee on Sundays. In fact, I didn’t even know her all that well.
I had a friend. Ugh. The past tense thrusts itself hard, into the deepest pit of my stomach. But I did. I had a friend. She wasn’t the kind of friend that I had spent my childhood with, or met for coffee on Sundays. In fact, I didn’t even know her all that well.
But despite the fact that our personal lives weren’t closely intertwined, we shared some of the biggest, most powerful moments that I imagine I will ever experience. Moments that have etched themselves into the forever part of my memory – and that I think transcend a silly little thing like time.
Her name was Rachel. And she was kind and funny and smart. And she had the kind of smile that let you know she cared, before she even spoke to you.
I met Rachel in the trauma bay at Denver Health. She was a PA on the emergency team and due to the nature of our jobs we often worked together on really difficult cases. The kind of cases that pulled at your heartstrings and forced you to suck back your tears and made you question your faith in just about everything.
But Rachel was the kind of physician that made my job easy. She knew how to talk to children and make them feel safe. She looked past the levels and the counts and the x-rays and the ultrasounds and cared for that little person behind the injury. She was warm and sympathetic and gentle. I wish the big, scary medical world was filled with more people like her.
One of the patients that sticks out to me the most was an 11-year-old boy who had been involved in a terrible car crash with his mom. The boy had suffered significant injuries but was going to be ok. His mom had died at the scene.
Once the boy was comfortable, his father had asked me if I would help him break the news to his son. And l’d like to think that over the years I had gotten pretty good at putting my own emotions on hold until I exited the hospital doors, but this was one of those moments that left my face burning and forced my throat to tighten around my words – clear indicators that I wasn’t too far away from losing it.
Rachel and I had worked together closely throughout the evening and so I asked her to be present as well should the boy have any medical questions (and a bit selfishly for my own support). And even though it wasn’t her job, and her shift had long since ended, she didn’t hesitate one single second in agreeing. She wanted to be there.
So the three of us quietly entered the room and gathered around the boy’s bed. And Rachel and I stood by and listened to the boy’s father choke back tears as he told his son the most excruciatingly painful words that could ever touch a child’s ears.
And of course the boy had questions. And I wish I could I remember exactly what it was that Rachel said, because it was amazing. Even when I was at a loss for words, she had them. And they were simple and truthful, but they were also so perfect and comforting. If I was that 11-year-old boy, I would have wanted those words. That compassion.
I left the hospital that night in awe of her. So moved by what she had said and how she had said it. So thankful that she had been there. For the boy. And for me.
When we went home for Christmas, I found out that Rachel had ended her life. And it was one of those moments that shot me straight up in bed and sent chills spiraling down my spine. Because I just couldn’t believe this beautiful person who I was just getting to know, just getting to adore, was gone. This talented and wonderful ball of light, who was giving so much of herself to others, must have been, at the same time dealing with such sadness – and that I had absolutely no idea.
One of the last conversations I ever had with Rachel was right before I left Denver Health. She was one of those kindred spirits who loved adventure and the outdoors. We totally clicked in that way and when we got to talking, we could go on for what seemed like forever.
We had stood in the hall chatting away for the better part of an hour. I was telling her the plans for our honeymoon and she was telling me her plans to move to Portland. It was a conversation that was full of life and excitement and hugs. We were so happy for each other. I had promised her that Brad and I would come stay with her when we made it to Portland – that we would continue to keep in touch until then. And we did. When it came to the blog, she was one of our biggest cheerleaders. She would leave awesome comments and send supportive messages. Sometimes she made me laugh. Sometimes she made me smile. She just totally and completely rocked. And even though our friendship was just beginning, I was thankful to have her in my life.
And here’s reason number 2,373 why I love my husband. When telling him about what had happened, and how it just completely broke my heart, he turned to me and said: “Well let’s dedicate this part of our trip to Rachel…when things are hard, we’ll do them for Rachel. When things are good we’ll know she’s with us.”
And so, Rachel – here’s to you. I wish we would have had more time. I wish we would have become the kind of friends that sipped coffee on your couch in Portland and swapped stories of adventure. I wish I could have taken a little bit of your sadness away. But I know a little piece of whatever it was that made you, you is with me. I know I will take all of the things you taught me about kindness, compassion and love with me always. The next time I look over a beautiful mountain range and feel the wind against my face – I know you’ll be there. And wherever the next 239 days take us - we’ll be thinking of you along the way.
-Kenze
DAYS 82-116: VIETNAM
I thought we would have gotten used to bus travel in southeast Asia. We had been on buses that broke down, had our seats given away in front of us, gotten shoved into isles jam-packed with cargo, and had things stolen from right underneath our seats. We have winced as bus drivers wedged, braked, and barreled through oncoming traffic.
H A L O N G B A Y , V I E T N A M
I thought we would have gotten used to bus travel in southeast Asia. We had been on buses that broke down, had our seats given away in front of us, gotten shoved into isles jam-packed with cargo, and had things stolen from right underneath our seats. We have winced as bus drivers wedged, braked, and barreled through oncoming traffic.
I thought we would have gotten used to bouncing from cheap hotel room to cheap hotel room. We had slept on mattresses so thin the coils dug into our backs, shown up to hostels only to find out we had accidentally booked the wrong night, and checked into $4 barack style bunk beds at 3 o'clock in the morning. The later wasn’t even me being cheap, it was our only option that night.
I thought we would have gotten used to the food. We had watched cats make themselves comfortable on kitchen counter tops in Thailand, stomached two weeks of Sherpa-style noodles in the Himalaya tea houses, and survived egg-induced food poisoning in Laos. And had eaten rice for breakfast, lunch and dinner throughout it all.
But the truth is, we were exhausted after over 100 days of travel. Tired of cleaning our laundry in hotel room sinks. Tired of ten hour bus rides. And really tired of all the rice. We needed a break and were thankful that we had booked a return trip home for Christmas. We spent the last two weeks in the midwest getting spoiled by our families, eating comfort food, and sleeping in cushy beds. We also took a break from blog writing so we hope that the few sentences and pictures below will give you a glimpse of our amazing time in Vietnam...
We spent our first few days in Da Nang, a large coastal city in the center of Vietnam strolling the streets between rain showers and drinking 30 cent coffees. We toured the ancient city of Hoi An by a flat bottomed wooden canoe and got tipsy off 40 cent beers. We then traveled north to Hanoi, Vietnam's capital city, spending most of our time dodging traffic in its Old Quarter and exploring war museums. Our favorite place, and where we spent the majority of our time, in Vietnam was on Cat Ba Island in Ha Long Bay. We kayaked hidden lagoons, hiked, climbed, and watched the sun set from the balcony of our $10/night hotel room. I even tried deep water soloing. And our final days were spent hiking amongst farming villages in Sapa, a town just south of the China border.
Upon returning home the most common question I received was, “What was your favorite place?” And I think I gave a different answer in response each time. Some places were easier on travelers, others had better food, some had more pleasant weather. Pretty much everywhere we went was beautiful. Although the Himalayas definitely stand out in that category. That is, unless your a beach person, because Ha Long Bay in Vietnam and Thai Islands were pretty spectacular too. The thing about travel is that it's not the places but the experiences. It’s the bus rides, the cheap hotels and the food. And it's experiencing it all with my wife. But who knows. Maybe my favorite place is yet to come. Happy New Year.
-Brad
H O I A N , V I E T N A M
DAYS 79-81: BOLAVEN PLATEAU (LAOS PART 3)
With cuts and scrapes still coloring my body from our first motorbike crash, I was hesitant at the thought of getting back on an unkept scooter to drive my wife on Laos’s crumbling backroads. However, I was even less interested in the alternative of experiencing the Bolaven Plateau from the back of a tuk tuk with exhaust fumes filtering our views of the passing countryside.
B O L A V E N P L A T E A U , L A O S
With cuts and scrapes still coloring my body from our first motorbike crash, I was hesitant at the thought of getting back on an unkept scooter to drive my wife on Laos’s crumbling backroads. However, I was even less interested in the alternative of experiencing the Bolaven Plateau from the back of a tuk tuk with exhaust fumes filtering our views of the passing countryside.
If only McKenzie had similar reservations? ...she didn’t.
Back on the scooter it was.
The Bolaven Plateau is an elevated region in southern Laos between Vietnam to the east and the mighty Mekong River delta to the west with many waterfalls gating its periphery. It is blanketed by coffee plantations and farms. As with most areas in this region, it didn’t avoid entanglement in the Vietnam War, having been one of the most heavily bombed areas, in part because of its proximity to the Ho Chi Minh Trail that flanks the eastern border. To this day it is not recommended to go “off trail” here due to the amount of undetonated ordnance still lurking in the fields. For more on this horrible reality, see the Laos Part 1 post.
We consolidated a few things into a single overnight backpack. One that McKenzie could shoulder from the back of the scooter, checking the rest of our stuff at our Pakse hotel. We’d be doing a 2-day 225km plateau loop. There is also a popular 4-day loop option but something told us we should ease our way into the world of multi-day scootering.
Our fully loaded 100cc scooter struggled as the highway pitched upwards away from the Mekong. Its shocks squeaked and moaned on the uneven roads. The rear brake took a hefty stomp before engaging. The speedometer didn’t work, a minor annoyance because we weren't ever in jeopardy of setting any speed records. Between the overloaded engine, hazardous road conditions and trying to dodge the stray cattle, pigs and dogs in the middle of the road, it was more zag than zoom. To the chickens credit and our amusement, they respected the horn and quickly darted and dashed off into the ditches as we passed.
Commuter traffic was slowly replaced by tractors and farm trucks. Villages grew smaller. Smiling children with book bags eagerly waved as we scooted by. The temperature dropped a few degrees and the landscape changed as we rode higher up onto the plateau. Farmers worked the fields. Coffee trees started to fill every nook along the hillsides. All while jostling for seat space on our tiny scooter.
We’d take breaks often for a cold coke. An excuse to stretch out the legs and observe daily life in the rural countryside.
I couldn't help but wonder when our scooter had its last tune-up. Or what we would we do if it broke down. After all, I’m the friend in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance who buys the new stuff and relies on the professionals to fix them. Not the the main character who appreciates the tinkering and fixing of the old one. Would we be able to hail a tractor to the nearest village? Would we have to spend the night sleeping on the floorboards of a farmer's hut?
We arrived in the small village of Tad Lo late that afternoon and checked-in to the last room at one of the few guesthouses. It was a homestay, which meant for 40,000 kip (or about $5) we had our own room with two twin beds at the end of a small stilted row house. A German couple could be heard talking through the thin walls next to us and the host family stayed at the end. We all shared the same detached bathroom. That evening we chipped in to cook dinner. We picked mint leaves, chopped garlic, cut onions, and sliced bread fully tapping into the extent of my culinary skills (and underutilizing McKenzie’s). And we dined together from a long table adjacent to the house garden, which grew all the food we were eating. An experience we won't forget.
We elected to go without the use of the shared shower facility the next morning after breakfast. We had 130 km to travel back to Pakse and it rolled by similar to the first day. We took our time. Stopping every so often for a waterfall or to gaze at coffee plantations.
We returned to Pakse that afternoon a little achy from two days hunched over on a small scooter. Agreeing that 4-day loop would have been a bit much. And I gave myself an pat on the back for successfully captaining us 225 km without another crash.
-Brad
T A D G N E U A N G W A T E R F A L L, B O L A V E N P L A T E A U , L A O S