The Valdivian Coastal Reserve (Reserva Costera Valdiviana)

In early February (South American Summer), Jesse, Gill and I regrouped in Valdivia, Chile. Prior to setting off on our journey, we had set up a stint of time to volunteer at the Valdivian Coastal Reserve (owned and operated by the Nature Conservancy). Each of us came stumbling in like refugees, worn and weary. At that point we were no longer a group, but instead three individuals seasoned by the same long road.

Everyone faces the same initial challenge when arriving in Chile: Chilean Spanish. It is impossible. A German chap named Johannes had thankfully been there for some time, and would coach me in their dialect and slang. In time, I was able to once more get the butter passed and make jokes (however terrible they may have been). Regardless of whether or not they understood us, the Reserve Team welcomed us whole-heartily.

The work was incredibly refreshing. My soul drank heartily from the experience. Getting out into the dunes overlooking the ocean was like going to church. There were penguins, sea-lions, puma, dolphins, and every sort of bird you could ever think of. The waters were rich with life. The beer quenched thirst unlike anything after a long day of work. The Honey was creamier and richer than any I have ever had. And the local culture is as thick as their wool.

I will never forget my time there, and promise to return one day. In the meantime, I hope that anyone reading this consider stopping by for a taste of the Congria, and a stroll among the ancient Alerce trees.

Un abrazo a Pepe, Patty, Pauli, Mauro y todos los Guarda Parques y Bomberos

-John Michael 12/19/08

Johannes, Alerce Forest

Camping out at one of the highest points on the Reserve, Alerce Forest

Cooking up some Carbonarra, Al Machete

Gillian, Don Omar, Yo. On a mission with sweet life jackets, Río Chaihuín

In the Dunes with Patty, Pauli and Mauro

After the multi-village soccer tournament. I was Goalie. We were Losers.

Patty, Mauro, Pauli, Yo. Amazing weekend.

Nevado del Tolima

I had finally found that perfect spot. So warm and comfortable. My heart was calm and beating ever-slower, with my lungs following right behind. The beat was hypnotizing, luring me into a deeper state of tranquility. Just before it seemed I was going to slip away into the stillness, a silent alarm went whaling throughout my entire essence. I snapped back to full consciousness, my eyes flashing open as I took an instinctively sharp breath of cold air. I felt my heart kick back into gear, every contraction a sickeningly painful reminder of my current situation: Face down in the mud at 11,000 feet on the side of a mountain, somewhere in Colombia. 

Without moving my body, I peered up through the bright white fog, unable to focus my vision on the phantom figure just above me -- holding my bag in one hand, and a machete in the other. My unblinking eyes were the only means for me to voice my emotions, as my brain and tongue were too swollen to communicate otherwise. Only now can I ask the questions I wouldn't allow myself to ask then: Where are my friends? What am I doing here alone? Why are my fingers swelling up like red sausages? How did this happen?....

A week or so before this point, our group split ways and we began to make decisions on our own... dangerous. Right away, my journey took a turn for the bizarre. By following a few fingers that had been pointing in the same direction, I found myself three gut-wrenching bus rides into the coffee growing region of Quindío province, in the town of Salento.  To the practical tourist, this area is a dream come true:  Tour-friendly coffee plantations, horse riding trails, streets of hand-made crafts, all set within the lush Colombian mountain-valley landscape.  For some, the most enticing quality has to be the gateway it offers to Parque Nacional Los Nevados (Snow Mountains National Park), upon which sits the mighty Nevado de Tolima.  It was the lure of this eminent peak of volcanic rock that called my impending suffering.

My first days within Salento were incredibly enriching.  It was one of those places in your journey that works as an eddie; where energy and movement become fragmented from the main body and swirl about until set free.  It is in such a place that you meet the real characters in your story.  The ones that others may stare at, or completely miss as they walk by... but you see their emerald irises thrashing out wildly from a black and white background, screaming within a monotone nightmare; and you respond to their call.  If you walk about with mouth shut and mind wide open, you can see them... as I saw the Old Wolf:  white gnarled fur, mischievous grin, all set atop a carrot orange, patch-worked kimono.  I realize now that he was some forgotten celtic god who had long ago set out from his realm of influence in search of someone to listen to his stories.  Whenever I think back to Central and South America, his presence is always there, strolling through my memories... perhaps to remind me that it is possible to travel too far, and for too long.  That at some point, you forget which way is home.

Two days before the ascent I found myself sitting next to a scruffy local kid, helping peddle his hand-made jewelry to Colombian tourists.  I asked him if I should get a weather report before I took off.  His reply to me was classic: "Up there you don't need a weather report, you need a guerilla report."  From behind his wide, shark-toothed smile came a disturbing chuckle.  Its echo returned to me as I lay next to death on the side of the mountain...

With a distracted will to survive, I pushed up from the ground, my heart signaling with every beat that it intended to pop.  My lungs had assumed not to help, pumping as though in a coma. My eyes uncrossed themselves as I found balance, refocusing attention up towards my only way out of there.  He couldn't have been any older than seventeen, telling by his thin, wispy mustache, but he had my life in his hands... as well as my backpack.  

I thought back to the night before when I saw Gillian at The Plantation House.  She had this look in her eye like she wanted to say it was a bad idea. We both knew it was useless at this point.  We were struggling as if in quicksand to find adventure and purpose.  This could also explain the massive backpack I was preparing to tote up the mountain with me.  Due to an unfortunate sequence of events on that last day in Salento, I had been sent off to climb the peak solo, geared up with what is typical to a caravan of climbers, with horses and professional guides.  The pack was a little over 100 pounds --more than half my own weight-- loaded with sleeping bag, tent, camping stove, crampons, ice axe, two days worth of food and water, and any warm clothing I could possibly fit after that. 

When in Salento, never go to "Trocha y Montaña" for your trekking/climbing needs.  They will rip you off and try to kill you.  

I started out how every other hiker must, in the Valle Cocora, a gully whose cloud swept crevices offer the most convenient passage up into the mountains.  I traveled the first bit of the trail alone, eventually meeting up with one of the campesinos from the farm where I was to stay the first night. He met me as we had planned the day before, at an old weather station named Estrella de Agua, burnt down years before by the guerillas.  He found me half asleep beneath its crusty skeletal structure, avoiding a bitter cold rain, and obviously beginning to feel the effects of altitude and physical exhaustion.  He was just a boy, equipped with feathery teenage mustache and all.  His high pitched voice and thick accent made him nearly impossible to understand.  He was the real deal though.  The product of a line of rough-neck farmers who had long ago settled in these mountains.  He bounded off into the thick, wet jungle like a goat, his machete already working.  I stomped along behind, barely keeping up, smashing clumsily through the narrow path he was carving up the slope.  

Tallest palm trees in the world, Valle Cocora

crashed out on a rock, self-portrait, Estrella de Agua

We moved through the jungle a few hundred yards away from the main path, which had been blocked off by fallen debris during the storm (I believe that's what he said).  Hurling myself from one tree to the next for support, I barely kept up.  A few times the trees proved to be dead rot, resulting in treacherous downhill rolls that would rattle all sanity.  Upon recovery, I would look up to see him staring down at me like I was already dead.

When we finally met the path, I expected easier sailing ahead.  I should have known from experience that there was no such thing on this journey.  It is at this point that my brain must have started to swell up, as this stretch of my memory loses all but a few sharp details.

The rain and cold became heavier every turn up those mud-slicked switch-backs... which seemed to get steeper and tighter around my neck with every exhale, choking both mind and movement like a fat little hamster. It wasn't long before I found myself nodding out along the path, asking the boy for "just a couple seconds" of rest.  I would wake back up to him squeaking at me in his high-pitched voice.  Nervousness bled forth from his every gesture, drowning out what was left of my confidence.  

The boy eventually asked if he could carry my pack for a while.  I half-heartedly hesitated before shrugging the weight of the universe from my shoulders.  Without skipping a beat he was back in billy-goat stride, heading straight up.  I waddled along behind him like a child, my legs as useless as a penguin's.  With my hands wrapped up in that torn red poncho, I couldn't have appeared more like Baby Huey unless I had been wearing a diaper and holding an empty jar of gerber carrot sauce.

We passed the pack back and forth a few more times before the end.  He looked at me once and said "very heavy"  It was the single consolation to my defeated machismo. The landscape morphed from jungle to bog within the dreamlike mist.  No one could have found their way in that mess without having travelled through it before.  [I was later told that a young man, who had decided to go it alone, had almost died after becoming lost within that exact same stretch only a couple weeks before. They had found him lying in a half-frozen stream, wearing nothing but his poncho.]  The last stretch was an undulation of hoof beaten, mud-slick trails.  Entire slabs of the earth would slide free under foot, sending me flailing like The Scarecrow in whichever direction it chose.  If not for the boy, I would have surely followed Death down from those slopes.  I had no dignity or pride left to hold me up on my feet. No ego to keep my chin raised.  I was walking down my path as humble as an Ascetic.  It didn't matter who saw my face sagging dopily from its skull, or my pack hanging from a boy's back. I was free, however beaten and bruised.  A dog's bark echoed out from the sky.  Not too soon, a large dark form materialized out of the mist.  And from its middle, a lone orange glow beckoned me like a smiling eye.  I had finally reached harbor: Finca Primavera ("Spring Farm").

That night I returned alone to a room about as ornate as a horse stall.  A single light-bulb hung from the middle of the ceiling like a loose tooth, casting shadows upon a mountain dipped in ink.  I climbed into bed beneath seventeen layers of hand-woven wool, my meekness soothed by their weight.  I heard the faintest sound of a radio playing close-by.  On the other side of the room, breath as heavy and thick as smoke came billowing out from one of the lower bunks.  The boy's voice leapt out from the pitch black shadow.  It was a question, but I had no clue about what.  I heard a second question asked, but this time from a deeper, squirrelier voice.  I stared with my head cocked like a confused dog.  A choir of laughter followed by an eruption of steaming breath answered my look.  The boy and both of his older brothers were cuddled together in their bed, listening to some Vallenato on their little AM/FM radio.  I made a sorry joke about him saving my life and thanked him again, rolling over to my side, wishing I could somehow be a part of their comfort and contentedness.  

After waking throughout the night to what I can only explain as a charlie horse in my heart, I decided that there was no way I would survive the rest of the climb to the summit.  Not without further traumatizing my system. When I awoke the next morning, Mt. Tolima was there in the window, peering down at me from its snow covered throne.  I snapped a couple pictures before the clouds swept in to settle for the day... it was the last I saw of the first mountain to ever conquer me.  My teacher.  I made a feeble promise to return, and then set off back down into the valley.

-John Michael 12/19/08

The man, Finca Primavera

The Chicken, Finca Primavera

The Family, drinking hot sugarcane drink.. so tasty, Finca Primavera

The Matriarch - Boiling up some milk and making Arepas

I feel like she would have given the best hugs, Finca Primavera

Nevado del Tolima, outside my window, Finca Primavera

For a different perspective on this trek, check out: christyandlewis

Intermission: Going our Separate Ways (like a Nuclear Chain Reaction)

All previous entries were written while I was still submerged below the border.  Moving without direction, yet never aimless.  The last entry was written at an intersection in the South American Journey-Quest.  Up until this point we were as sleek and efficient as a Japanese bullet-train... but chaos had been in play since the beginning, and was swiftly approaching.  Minor imperfections in the makeup of our group had become magnified by the stresses of long periods of travel through less-than-typical conditions.  Not long after setting foot onto the South American continent, our seemingly perfect trio/quartet began to fall out of balance.  In some unknown moment the train derailed in a ball of fire, and we were sent searing into the unknown like fragmented strips of liquid-hot metal.

From that time forward we were on our own, and though we came together again at times, it was never to become that unified entity we were before.  It sounds grave, but it was both healthy and absolutely necessary.  We made choices as individuals, for better or for worse, and we grew.  No matter the outcome, each of them are forever my comrades, and I patiently await our next charge into the wild-lands. 

-John Michael

10/1/08

Bola de Nieve

Eight days ago we woke up in Panama City to meet our first leg of transport to South America. It was an old, hardy Land Rover 4x4. Within two hours it had us miles from the smooth city streets, blasting through stone and mud in a thick, wet, jungle terrain. Various 80's hair-metal bands blared from the speakers, out the windows, and passed our mud spattered faces hanging out the windows as we fish-tailed our way up and down the increasingly mud-choked "road". We soon came upon a carravan of locals standing outside their vehicles, which were lined up a hill and around a sharp turn for about a quarter-mile ahead of us. As we stood there wondering why no one else was having as good a time as us at 9 in the morning, the entire line of people stared back at us, surely wondering the exact opposite. Our driver returned to us from around the bend, and simply said "Its bad...". So we joined a line of abandoned passengers, and began to trudge through the knee-deep mud. Rounding the corner at the top of the hill, it quickly became clear to us why we had to unload some weight from the Rover: A huge truck, full of bananas, had sunk about two or three feet into the mud, blocking the old road.

The locals had been working furiously along the side of it, creating an alternate path for those more fortunate. As we walked along contemplating the rapid change in our situation, the Land-Rover went screaming by us at full speed, floating over the mud like a skier in powder... slipping in and out of control. We met back up another half-mile down the road, a plume of steam erupting from the freshly cooled engine. With some extra stragglers packed in, we continued on down the battered course.

To be honest, we had no idea where we were going... simply the name. When we were told to get out of the truck and grab our gear, we were surrounded by nothing but jungle, and down the hill from us a river that cut across it. He pointed to it and told us that was how we were to get to Cartí.

Our next ride came floating down the river about thirty minutes later, with a kid navigating from the bow with a long wooden pole. This longboat guided us down the crocodile-infested river for almost an hour before emptying out into the ocean. We had learned from others now traveling with us that we were headed for the islands. Las Islas de San Blas. Its a chain of about 400 islands, scattered about this northern part of Panama's Carribean coast, autonomously owned by the native "Kuna". This is where we were to wait for Capitan Javier, and our sailboat to Colombia.

Kuna and their Coconuts 

After arriving at our temporary island village, we found out that this first day was no where close to over....

(Playing a makeshift version of volleyball while awaiting the festivities)

(A parade of children from one of the islands comes to send us off, only to greet us later that night for the ceremony and celebration of a number of their girls entering into womanhood)  

The next morning we jumped on a longboat and headed over to another island in search of the infamous "Twyla D", which was to be our sea-worthy home for the coming six days.

Our crew included two German fellows: Simon and Simon; their Spanish companion Diego; Cheko the Mexican-hippie; and four dirty-dogs from the States. Eight all together. Captain Javier, a quirky, rarely-spoken Spanish man, and his Colombian lady-friend were our veteran hosts. For two days we meandered about the San Blas Islands enjoying more of the Kuna way of life: Swimming everywhere, eating fresh fish, and pooping in the ocean.



        ("Stuck on a boat with 7 savage men... a scary scene it was" -Gill)

At about 11 in the morning on the third day, the sails let fly and our little boat opened up on the open ocean. It was unbeleivable. We were all out on the bow of the boat with a strong wind and a full sun, holding on to whatever we could as we sliced through these long, rolling waves. I remember looking over and seeing Cheko's dread-locked head bobbing along with the motion of the ocean....the biggest smile on his face. It would happen that that was one of the last times I would see Cheko until our trip was over....

After about 30 minutes on the high-seas, I noticed my stomach begin to lose its strength, and this weakness slowly flowing into all of my muscles and joints. I layed down on the bow, looking back to see some of the others beginning to take this same nap. No one admitted it at first, but the slimy, pale-green tentacles of sea-sickness had begun to grip us all.

Our time on the boat cannot be remembered in terms of days from this point on, as our brief and agitated sleep intervals were countless...we thought in terms of how many hours left. Day faded into night with the most unhealthy looking sunset I have ever seen. Time moved along at a slow, greeasy pace.


The next day at about five or six in the morning, I woke up incredibly delirious to what I thought was someone taking pictures of us in our huddled messes in the cockpit... It turns out we were actually in the middle of a thunderstorm, the likes of which I had never experienced. No wind, just a cold, constant rain and plenty of lightning. The bolts were so close at times that they would completely white-out our vision, and the thunder would deafen. Those of us who were awake stared about in a dreamy disbelief. The day dredged on like this for eternity. The only way to tell that time was moving forward was by the sky, as it changed from a pale shade of green to a light, fecal brown; signs that the sun was rising somewhere above it all.

The next time I came-to, there was actually a bit of blue sky. I came up from one of the beds down below to a haggard looking bunch, adding to the ugliness with my arrival. That was the point at which it seemed we were all coming back around a bit. Cautiously engaging in a conversation or two, and a laugh if it was really worth it. The sunset that night seemed to even have a bit of luster to it.

(A brief taste of happiness: Cpt. Javier reels in two blue-fin tuna.  The feeling is quickly ejected from our stomachs as we take turns going below deck to cut and clean the fish)

I came back from nodding out again sometime after nightfall.  I had the sensation of cookie crumbs sprinkling down on my face. I blinked up at our captain, watching as he finished a cookie as he stood above me.  I then realized he was chuckling at something. As I tried to stand up and see what he was laughing about, I nearly stumbled overboard, finding out too late that we were smashing through some massive waves at a very high speed. I regained my balance and looked about the shadowy deck from all fours, assessing the situaiton. Javier was laughing at the Germans, who were sleeping below deck on the little kitchen couches. Anything that wasn't tied down (which was everything) was getting flung all around and smashed into their sleeping faces. I came out from below the cockpit cover at the stern, and stared out at what was to be one of the most insane nights of my life.

Mother Nature Climaxes

The moon was completely full, illuminating a silver-blue pathway perfectly in the direction we were heading. The sea itself was a deep black, salted white with foam from giant, breaking waves and the reflection of a starry night sky. We were charging it all head on; the boat at a constant 30 to 45 degree lean from gale force winds, blowing us along at highly uncomfortable speeds. Javier was loving it, and so quickly was I.

Up until this point Javier needed help from no one. Not even his girlfriend Esperanza, who had been missing in action for the passed twenty hours due to "woman pains" (as he put it in spanish). His first-mate and trusted companion was the Autopilot, who you could almost see steering merrily about the seas as Javier would be adjusting the sails, or sitting along side of while enjoying the cigarette glowing in his mouth. But that night his most vital of friends, the only one who I think truly understood what he was saying, decided it had had enough. As I stood there hanging on to one of the cables on the back of the boat, looking out over an endless desert of water, it felt as though the boat had suddenly lost its grip. It nearly stopped moving and began reeling off in another direction, apparently trying to align parallel with the wind and the waves. Everything below deck crashed and blew up towards the cockpit in a raucous explosion of noise. Javier went running about in an immediate blur of emergency procedures. At this point my adrenaline blinded the memory, and no specifics can really be given.  The only thing that can be sure is that he pulled us out of the mouth of some very hungry looking waves.

Notes from below deck in gillian´s words--

Mind racing, head spinning, heart thumping... we´re all going to die. How the f··· did we end up in this situation? I laid down in the small bed that the four of us traded off ¨resting¨in, scared sleepless and at a total loss of what to do. One arm gripped a bar over my head that opened the window, from here on known only as my "oh shit" handle, as I struggled to keep my body horizontal and in one place on the bed. As each wave crashed and the boat lurched side to side, the boom, bang, boom reverberated throughout the cabin. The biggest waves sent water gushing in through the windows, soaking us all in sticky, salty sheen... My mind was blank, reduced to raw survival instincts to holdon,and hold on tight, and soon enough, (fingers crossed) this would all be over. Soon enough was not soon enough. Soon enough turned into the entire night, I found myself bracing and even whimpering a little bit as we were tossed around at the mercy of the open ocean. This angry monster´s thirst for our sanity was unquenchable, as we were all slowly drained of any intelligible thoughts or actions. We moved around slowly, and silently, if we tried to move at all. We were 8 zombies, raoming the cabin, almost afraid to make eye contact as we crossed paths, as the fear in our eyes was inescapable, and would only magnify if our eyes connected. Just keep holding on, this can´t last forever. This is survival. We will survive. We have to...

When we were back on course, I looked over and saw that Javier's eyes were a bit wider and less confident than a few moments before. I am sure my face quickly mirrored this same look. I had already been thinking I would stay up with the Captain for a while to give him some company....but now I really had little choice. As I looked about our new situation, with the Captain on full alert at the helm, a sick little part of me smiled.  Wasn't this exactly why we were here?  

The night went on, wave after wave, with no real concept of time. With my eyes unblinkingly looking out over the ocean ahead of us, my trance would only be broken by the spray from waves breaking violently over the bow, or Javier´s voice calling me to take the helm. Without the help of the autopilot computer, Javier was also at the mercy of standard map navigation. So our focus remained on the horizon, awaiting the distant twinkle of a single lighthouse.

Hope that we were nearing land was not visible at first, but simply warm and soothing. The heated winds from Colombia´s coast was sweeping out to us, drawing us in. An hour later the glow of our destination city became clear. In the early morning light, my first glimpse of Cartagena was had....and six hours later we were all witnessing what we began to believe was just a figment of our imagination: Beautiful, solid, dry land.

The pictures can tell the rest of the story, but we had made it....and just in time for Christmas.

                                              (The famous Blue Santa of Colombia)


       (The youngest of our Christmas family cheers the day)

My first Tattoo: ¨Thanksgiving 2007 Utila, Honduras¨ (across butt-cheeks)

Heading to Utila, Honduras (Bay Islands) where two things were certified:

Our Scuba skills (Advanced)
...and our Mustache growing abilities (actually very debateable)This last shot was taken at the climax of one of the weirdest Thanksgivings I think I will every have the pleasure of being witness to (also refer to images above). Representitives from Sweden, Switzerland, Canada, Australia and the United States were present.

-John Michael

11/27/07

(www.journeyquest.blogspot.com)

Antigua: First Impressions

First night out in Antigua.  A young kid with the wide-eyed expression of someone who has been huffing glue, led us to the only cheap, late-night food joint in town: the back of a random Guatemalan's van.  (Pictured: A fellow patron whose affiliations were unknown, but equally enjoyed the coffee and meat sandwiches)

-John Michael

11/14/07

(www.journeyquest8.blogspot.com)

Tajumulco - The Peak of Central America

Watching the sun set from Cerra Concepción (13,530 ft.)
(Picture taken by one of three things Jesse hates)

An epic sunrise, seen from atop Tajumulco

Our trek to the top of Tajumulco was guided by the non-profit
organization Quetzaltrekkers (http://www.quetzalventures.com/guatprojects.html)
----------------------------
All proceeds (Which are not much: 350 Q/45 BUCKS) go to Escuela de la Calle, a school for street children in Quetzaltenango (Xela), Guatemala

-John Michael

11/1/07

(www.journeyquest8.blogspot.com)