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The call of the West: looking back on 6 months in the Mountain States

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High pitch, low pitch, one chirp, then two. The baseline was composed of woodpeckers rapidly tapping on the trunks of trees in the distance. It was the symphony of birds. It was the concerto of the Pecos wilderness in New Mexico. More than that, it was a welcome back song. The sun filled my face with warmth and sweat dripped down my back beneath my backpack. My legs itched as I brushed passed a plant that tickled my leg and reminded me of the continuously biting mosquitoes. It was wonderful. I slapped away a mosquito that hovered over the red scar that now decorates my leg. The only visible sign of months not being able to walk and an explanation for the gingerness held while carrying a pack and walking on uneven ground. This was not a year in South America or a grandiose van trip to escape it all. Well maybe it was a little of the latter. The 2nd of July marked the one year anniversary of beginning life with a permanent address listed as Guy in Van. No, this was a weekend in the mount...
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Less pollo more gringo: a man and his van

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A small cool bead drew quickly together at the base of my hairline. A bit thinner than it used to be, the bead slid easily through my hair across the curve of my head to my temple. Slowly, I came to with a sweaty roll into cold damp sheets. Why was it so hot and where was I? With a startle I sat straight up. Was it a work day? Was I in a hotel room? At my parent’s house in Chicago? In New York? In South America? The story of the previous three years could be written from that fleeting moment. Rapidly exploding thoughts reached the rolling green mountain tops surrounding the Hudson Valley before settling back to the river at the valley floor. All that remained was a consistent droning of the ceiling fan. I was safe in my van and it was Saturday. A few hours remained until sunrise and the day’s adventure. I slowly drifted back to sleep. It has been two years since I last posted. From the corners of the US, to Europe to the islands of Indonesia I have not stopped traveling (except for a f...
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The Towers of Patagonia: Torres del Paine

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“Que mierda (shit)” the driver said in Spanish. The car sputtered and I jerked forward in the seat. Those words, and the feeling growing in my gut, were ones I hoped to avoid. The car sputtered again. “We are out of gas” he said. My mind immediately went to my water and food supply. We could stay in my tent until someone passed to give us a hand worst case scenario. A smile crept across his face and he laughed. He flipped a switch to the right of the steering wheel and hit the accelerator. “I have a big extra gas tank. I’m just joking!” It was an average afternoon hitchhiking the barren landscape of Southern Patagonia. Green eyes greeted me at the hostel. I responded with a smile and took particular interest in the Italian woman. She was travelling with two friends from Greece and Switzerland she met during her travels. We bonded over life on the road while the wine began to pour like the conversation, smoothly. Puerto Natales wasn’t my favorite town, but meeting the right people...
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