Coming Home

Two nights ago, I watched my last sunset over the ocean in South America and saw the Southern Cross in the sky for the last time while on a bus from Antofagasta in Chile’s desert North to metropolitan and mediterranean Santiago. That afternoon, following a long and bizarre metro ride where a cravat-wearing Santiago native with elite connections and fascist leanings pontificated to me about Zionist conspiracy theories, I drank my last Chilean wine in Chile at the Concha y Toro winery in the beautiful (especially at harvest time) Valle de Maipú. Later that night, I drank my last Chilean beer, the only beer in the world made with Patagonia’s Calafate berry while eating my last South American ceviche and having a crazy conversation about science and stromatolites with a stranger I had just met.

I am going to miss this place.

South America was crazy. It was beautiful. It was wild. I adored its pristine wildernesses and survived its filthy cities. I met the nicest people in the world. And creeps, assholes, and violent thugs. But mostly the nicest people in the world.

I am returning home with a significantly lighter backpack than when I arrived, but with a fuller heart, a stronger self, a richer life story, and a lot of new friends.

What an adventure!

I am sad to leave, sad to close this chapter of my life. I am going to miss this place, and miss the people, miss their warmth and vivacity and passion and kindness, going to miss the conversations with people with perspectives often so different from my own. I'm going to miss the music and the dancing. I'm going to miss the wine. I'm going to miss the mountains.

But with every closed chapter comes bright and shiny new pages in the book of life. I don’t know yet what is next for me. For the immediate future, there will be lots of science, spending time with some of my favorite people in the world, and traveling around the West Coast in my beloved Tomatomobile while living out of my car, which isn't too different from what I've been doing around Chile, Argentina, and Peru this year. But after that?

One thing is certain: the adventure doesn't end with this flight I’m taking home.

Thank you all for joining me on this trip, it's been incredible.

See you around!

I loved South America Thiiiiiiiis Much!

Navarino Part V: Bahia Windhond, or the day I stood naked at the end of the world

Part V in the story of my 7-day solo trek on Isla Navarino, continued from Part IV: Refugio Charles and Lago Windhond. To start at the beginning or to see the full list of Navarino episodes, click here.

I am the queen of late starts. Despite waking at around 7 am I didn’t leave camp until around 10. I first spent around two hours trying to mend the giant holes I had burned in my socks at the fire at the previous camp—an attempt that later proved futile, at least in part because of my terrible sewing skills. I didn’t bother with breakfast and just ate some cookies and one of the sandwiches I had packed instead. I put on my damp socks and boots and took off with a little fanny pack with food and a poncho, leaving my tent up in case of bad weather, and thinking I’d be back from the bay—which was right there—by lunch. Ha!

Frankensocks

First, less than two minutes in to the trek my bowels made the sort of gurgle that means “DO NOT IGNORE ME” and I barely had time to drop my pants before I suddenly became a full two pounds lighter.

Not long after that, I was stopped again, this time by a large river that was not on the cheesy whole-island map that I now had to rely on (this part of the island falling well off the edge of my halfway decent topo maps). It was, I realized, on my GPS map which if I had seen before should have warned me (my excuse: my phone screen is nearly impossible to read in the glare of the light of day, and with all the rain over the past few days I didn’t often want to take it out of my pocket). None of the creeks that had been very difficult to impossible to cross that I had been hopping and wading through and skirting before had been on the GPS map, so the fact that this map showed up should have clued me into the fact that this would be a large obstacle. Indeed, this was no creek. It was a legitimate river. I walked along its banks for over a mile, trying to see if there was any chance of a shallow spot I could wade across or a series of logs or something, but there was nothing, no way to cross without swimming, which I might have considered if not for my cold (I had woken up with a sore throat, headache, and full sinuses), it being very cold, and not wanting to dunk my camera for a second time in 30 hours.

My campsite. Camera was still a little soggy (hence the fog)... didn't want to get it any wetter.

The river did not go straight to the bay, which as the crow flies was less than 4 km away. It went instead another 12 km to the east, increasing the distance I needed to walk by at least 3x (or 16 more km out and back). I mentally came to terms with the reality of my not making it back by lunch, needing to camp another night in my little hilltop room with a view, and it being now extremely unlikely that I’d be able to make it back to the Dientes circuit in time to make a quick go at it.

But damnit, I was going to make it to that bay! Over the next four hours I marched through forest, peat bog, spiny death bushes, and beaver swamps that in some cases I was only able to get through by tightroping across their dams—in two cases breaking them (sorry beavers, but you did make the route impassable, plus, you are a non-native species…so I didn’t feel too bad).

But this guy was a native species. He can stay.

Most exhausting of all were the chest-deep mounds of beachgrass on the dunes when I finally approached the bay. Where hiking through the peat bogs was like walking for hours on a mattress, the beachgrass involved lifting my leg to my chest, scrambling up, sinking back down, repeat. When I arrived at the beach I was exhausted and my tendons hurt.

More bog.

But I made it.

To the end of the world.

The beach at Bahia Windhond

At least as close to the end of the world I could get without passage on a yacht or a trip to Antarctica, as close to the end of the world as I could get without a whole lot of money I don’t have. The farthest south anyone I know has been who hasn’t been to Antarctica.

Yay!!

I had a glorious ten minutes in the sun when I finally arrived. I ate my sandwich, stripped naked and had just started to wade into the water when I saw the giant dark storm cloud heading straight for me. I thought the better of going for a frigid swim with a storm coming and a four hour walk back to warmth before me. So I waved goodbye to the end of the world, threw my clothes and poncho back on, and hit the chest-deep grass again just as the hail hit.

Where on the hike there I had had many moments where I’d grin and laugh when I’d see some vista and remember where I was and what I was doing, on the way back my brain switched off and I just marched, too tired and cold and wet to enjoy the scenery. I marched back through the mounds of beachgrass, back through the beaver swamps, back through the peat bogs, through forest and plains, through meadows and over hills, poncho on, face set, trying to keep up a good clip to stay reasonably warm in the cold rain.

A sampling of the scenery I marched through.

I marched for hours like that until suddenly, at the top of a ridge forested with tall, slender trees, a gentle wind made the trees sing at the same time that a cloud opened up, sending soft green light dancing around me. I was dazzled.

The moment hit me like a shock, a reminder of where I was, of all that had brought me there, and I was floored with gratitude and happiness. It was like the God I had loved as a young person had appeared in front of me, held out his arms, and said, “See? It was all okay in the end.” I looked around me, bathed in the dancing light and singing trees, filled with the feeling of everything being okay.

In that moment I realized that all of the struggle and torment and tedium and heartache (and good times as well) that had eaten me the past decade and especially the past few years had, as a culmination of forks in the road that my life had taken, brought me there, to this magical grove of trees on an island on the cold, sweaty, southern toe of the Americas. There, to a place and on an adventure of which my self a decade ago would never have dreamed. That it had been okay in the end. More than okay: Incredible. And there I was, standing outrageously happy at the end of the world.

Forest

I was moved to do something I hadn’t done in over a decade: I prayed. Dropped to my knees, face to the sky, surrendered myself to the universe, and prayed. I prayed to no deity in particular, having long ago become disillusioned by and walked away from the religion of my childhood, so I was simply talking to the air. But the feeling was the same as when I used to pray in my youth; I felt connected to the universe, felt my soul bursting inside me. It was a prayer of thanks, and a prayer for forgiveness: forgiveness for my lack of understanding and appreciation of all these years, and forgiveness for the anger and bitterness that I had been refusing to give up for so long.

And finally I forgave, in words out loud to the wind, those people against whom I had held the anger that had been eating me alive.

I forgave my German ex-fiancé who, I was finally able to accept, did what he had to do to protect his own happiness and sense of self. In that moment I realized truly that I am happier now than I could have been with the real version of him that I had refused to see and refused to accept. That his leaving was, even though the circumstances were terrible, in the end a gift. That my heart was broken but was returned to me, and that it was in my power to heal it, because my heart is a big heart, a strong heart, and a good heart. In that moment I was finally able to let him, and the rage and disgust and fury that had been rotting me from the inside these past few years, go.

I forgave my beloved sister who, also in making decisions to protect her own happiness, had burned to the ground her own relationship—a relationship that I had held onto as a lighthouse of hope in the wake of my own falling apart as proof that true love was possible. If true love like hers was possible, I felt some hope that I might also find it someday. When her marriage ended I was devastated, because I saw it as proof that I would never find a lasting relationship because real and lasting love does not exist. In that moment in the trees I realized that my happiness does not depend on my finding a soulmate, if such a thing even exists. I realized that I am the happiest I have ever been right now, and I am alone!—and my happiness certainly doesn’t depend on the relationship status of my sister, who I adore and wish every joy in the world.

I forgave the friend who had been my buddy during much of the time I was struggling through the former two hurts who, without word or explanation, threw me off in a way that ripped open the wounds that were just starting to scab over. I realized that although I may never understand why he did it, that I was okay now, that I could be grateful for the happiness he brought me in a very dark time, and that I hoped that whatever he is up to now, that he is happy.

Stream

And finally, I forgave myself for my shortcomings and the hell I put other people through during these dark years. I forgave myself for taking so long to get over the other things—for the hell I put my own self through. For being small and bitter and jealous and angry and needy and an imperfect human. I had been furious with people for ruining my life. I needed to see that my life wasn’t ruined, that it was, in fact, better than it otherwise would have been, before I was able to let go and forgive. That was not big of me, but it was human of me, and sometimes we have to forgive ourselves for being humans, not saints. Whatever the path, in the end I had fought through the darkness and clawed my way up from the deep well I had fallen into. I had been brave enough to throw a middle finger to expectations and go on a quest to find where my soul had run off to and to try to heal my heart. I hadn’t done perfect, but I had done good. “It’s okay, Carie,” I thought. “It’s okay now.”

The wind and light wrapped me around me as though the universe was also saying, “It’s okay, Carie, it’s okay now,” and giving me a hug. I stood, feeling if not fully healed at least a whole lot closer. And I felt at peace in my heart for what very well may have been the first time of my 20’s.

The rain started again and the magical huggy wind spirit wasn’t going to take me back to camp, my feet would have to do that, so off I went again. My GPS was acting screwy but I was pretty sure I could find my way back to camp without it. Sure enough, an hour and a half or so later, I laughed out loud when I rounded a corner and almost stepped in my giant, now half-melted turd from the morning (bad pootiquette, I know, but I figured nobody would be around this area until long after the weather had taken care of it, and I didn’t have a trowel on me). I was home!

Home sweet home.

For dinner I cooked a noodle soup and then promptly knocked over the pot and spilled it all over the ground, so I ate dirt-coated noodles picked off the ground and cookies for dinner, enjoying the view for about twenty rain-free minutes before the rain returned. It was a cold night, not only because I had a cold but because it was a cold storm, and I curled up inside my tent bundled up in several layers including a down jacket inside my down sleeping bag and still felt cold. Cold, but content and happy, and whole.


Spoiler video from the trek:

I woke up to patches of snow around my tent, a preview of the weather to come. Continued in Part VI: Bushwhacking North

Splitboarding the Refugios of Bariloche Part III: Italia (Laguna Negra)

Part III of the Splitboarding Patagonia series, continued from Part I: Refugio Frey and Part II: Refugio San Martin (Jacob)

Refugio Italia (Laguna Negra)

Fernando's (not crazy Fernando from the last story, Helpful Fernando from the Bariloche Club Andino) final recommendation for me was Refugio Italia at Laguna Negra. I told him I was sick of people and wanted solitude, and he said Laguna Negra was beautiful and likely to be quiet, with the refugio opening for the first time for the season the coming weekend.

My friend Anneke at the Green House hostel had been hearing my stories and getting jealous. She didn't have a splitboard but if the past two weekends were any indication I assumed we'd be carrying our boards most of the time anyhow. She also didn't have a tent or sleeping mat, but there was always the refugio. I encouraged her to join. She finally sweet talked her way into a traded work shift so that she could go, picked up crampons and cooking gas while I got groceries (including a box of wine), and off we went.

Into the woods. With our snowboards. Because that makes perfect sense.

The trail started from Colonia Suiza, a little Swiss village way out in the woods of Bariloche (WTF? but then, that's Bariloche). We just barely caught the one afternoon bus at 1:30 pm after my Spanish class with Ivone let out. Advantage of having a Swiss village way out at the woods next to a trailhead: chocolate. We loaded up, and also picked up a lighter for lighting the gas stove, which I had forgotten (or rather, which someone at the hostel had never returned after I loaned it to him, ahem, Santi). It was hard not to eat all of it right then.

Chocolate acquired, we set off, getting the requisite weird looks from everyone who saw us, boards strapped to our fully-loaded backpacks. One person even slowed down to a stop, rolled down his window, and said what I assume was the Spanish equivalent of, "What. The. Fuck." At which point we proceeded to have a nearly word-for-word identical conversation to the one I had had with a different motorist almost exactly one week prior.

"Are you lost?"
"No, we're going to a trail. It's close."
"The ski area is closed."
"Yeah, we know, we're not going there. We're going to Laguna Negra."
"Then why are you carrying snowboards?"
"We're going snowboarding."
"There is no snow." (this was starting to sound familiar)
"Yeah, there is, in the mountains."
"No, there is no snow. Look, no snow."
"There's lots of snow."
"I will drive you to the ski area, but there is no snow."
"No, we know. There is snow where we are going, not the ski area."
"You don't want me to drive you?"
"No, really, the trail is right here, we're fine."

Then he stared at us with a look that expressed simultaneously a high degree of mistrust and suspiscion, "you must be terrible people", and "you are definitely going to die" while slowly rolling up his window before he drove off.

The two of us at the trailhead, ready to roll. Photo by Anneke.

Two minutes later, we were on the trail. I felt every inch of the climb, carrying my sleeping bag, bivvy sack, sleeping pad, cooking gas and stove, a cooking pot, the box of wine, 2.5 L of water, pasta, oranges, veggies, cookies, sandwiches, snow clothes, my camera, my GoPro, my Kindle, my splitboard skins, my splitboard, my boots, and a first aid kit, weighing in at a total of ~60 lbs. So we decided to stash the food and cooking stuff, since we'd be returning the next night in order to catch the early Sunday AM bus so that Anneke could get to work on time.

Anneke, on the first of many creek crossings.

Aaaand another creek crossing. Notice Anneke's soft cast. Because going snowboarding the week you get your cast off (when it was snowboarding that broke your arm in the first place) is totally fine.

I was happy that it was a significantly shorter hike than the weekend prior, but carrying as much as we were it still felt long. At one point we ran into a guy (I almost literally ran into him, the sun blinding my eyes and keeping him from view until I was less than 3 feet from him) who asked if the refugio was far. "Yes," I said honestly. He wasn't even halfway. He then said that he was exhausted and turned around and went back. I felt bad, but the next part of the hike made me glad I had said that. It was sketchy; as Helpful Fernando had predicted, the final stretch switchbacked up a steep ridge and it was snowed over. Which meant postholing through ice-crusted snow for the final seemingly straight uphill kilometer and a half. Which meant a lot of falling into holes with our heavy packs on. It was not very fun, but the views very beautiful. And snow, snow is good, right?

View from the climb

Anneke hiking through the snow...in shorts. Aussies are badasses.

Between our map, Fernando's trail description, and some old tracks, we figured out where we were going and picked our way slowly and carefully up the ridge. Anneke, hauling her board and a rented sleeping bag that alone must have weighed 20 lbs was a champ. This was her first time out since breaking her arm 2 months earlier, and she had just gotten her cast off.

I popped over the ridge and saw the beautiful refugio perched on the edge of very frozen Laguna Negra. We got in and greeted the refugioero, who was startled to see us, having just arrived himself and unlocked the refugio for it's first day of occupation that season. He spent the first 10 minutes unnecessarily apologizing for the mess and set about cleaning up the place.

Refugio Italia

I meanwhile set about finding a good spot to camp and was struck by the beauty of the mountains, now bathed in Alpenglow. I had just pulled out my camera when a giant fox--a Zorro Gris / Patagonian Grey Fox, which isn't really in the fox family being much more closely related to wolves--appeared. He was the size of a labrador, sleek, stunningly handsome, and not the least bit shy.

At first I thought, "maybe he isn't a fox, maybe he's the refugiero's dog," and remembered seeing the dog tracks in the snow on the way up. But no, despite the lack of shyness, this was definitely a wild animal, a wild animal who had followed the human tracks up the mountain because he was hungry and hunting, and the thought that this animal had climbed up that ridge because he smelled food and that food was of a human nature was in my head as he approached and very closely and slowly circled me. In contrast to how I usually respond to dogs--squat down and hold out my hand for sniffing--I stood tall and eyed him back, snapping occasional photos (with a brief flash of  thinking "at least if it eats me, my family will know what got me").

Foxy fox

"Hey handsome," I said to the fox. "I'm a big healthy animal. So let's make a deal: I won't eat you if you don't eat me."

Fox continued to circle and watch me as I set up my bivvy sack. It checked out my snowboard and backpack, but there was no food (we left the food down the trail hanging from a tree), and I must have impressed upon him that I was not food, because he eventually left and I didn't see him again.

"Why are your jaws so big, fox?" "All the better to eat you with, my dear."

In the meantime Anneke had arrived and was drying out and warming up inside, and I joined her, unpacked the wine, an we toasted. The wine was terrible, even the refugiero refused to drink it with us, but whatever. The chocolate from the Colonia Suiza on the other hand was excellent, and our friend the refugiero didn't refuse that. We discussed the morning, I showed her the line I wanted, and pointed out other options while she decided on hers.

Anneke & me toasting our arrival at Refugio Italia with truly awful boxed wine (my first not-good wine since arriving in South America) in our metal cups. Fortunately this was made up for with very excellent chocolate.

We had asked for a simple meal versus the normal 3-course meal and were served a steaming heap of pasta with a mushroom alfredo sauce. I twas going to be another Benadryl night, but it was delicious. And, Benadryls downed, I crawled into my sleeping bag, attempted some night photos, and slept like a log. I woke up to the sunrise, took some more photos, and went back to sleep, sleeping until 9am, exhausted form the week. Funny, But I always slept better in my bivvy sack than I ever did in the hostel, as much as I loved the Green House.

View over Laguna Negra from the bivvy sack

Sunrise at Refugio Italia

I finally got up, anxious to squeeze as much as possible out of the day, and went into the refugio to repack my bag for snowboarding. Anneke and I had breakfast (bananas, oranges, and crappy sandwiches) and we set off, a late 10:30 start. It took us a while to get around the lake, and by the time Anneke and I split ways and I had put my skins on, it was already noon.

Anneke plowing up the mountain.

So I popped in my headphones for the turbo-charge of energy that music can provide and rocketed my way around the rest of the lake and up the ridge on the end of the lake opposite the refugio, this time making it the entire way on skins, a welcome change from weeks of doing pretty much everything with crampons and the board on my back. I celebrated at the top with a sandwich and another dance party, keeping an eye on Anneke’s progress up the opposing slope and hoping I’d be able to catch her on my GoPro on her way down. Turns out she had stopped, not to put on her board and go down, but to watch me as well, and eventually she started back up the hill, and I started hiking the ridge. I stopped at the point where I’d no longer be able to see and film her, but she was going all the way up—go Anneke!—so I continued, keeping on solid ground and away from the heavily corniced snow edge on my way up to the summit.

Me, hiking along the Cerro Negro ridgeline to the summit. Photo by Anneke.

I didn't realize I had made the summit until I noticed that the view from the ridge was no longer facing the direction it should face from the summit, having passed the summit and continued along the ridgeline toward Cerro Lopez. I turned around, found the summit, filmed my final dance party (see video below...the clips from the Cerro Lopez summit were filmed while dancing to music in my head since my MP3 player had run out of juice), and slowly, carefully, picked my way down the very steep, very cliffs-on-both-sides series of rocks to the point where I wouldn't have to drop a large cliff or giant cornice to hit the slope.

I sat down on a rock, strapped on my board, and made the drop, my heart leaping into my neck in that wonderful surge of “oooh hellll yeah woooooooo!” of doing something absolutely awesome like dropping off the steep face of a pointy mountain. It was an excellent run, a run well worth the long hike, a run that made up for the previous week’s meh-ness, a run worthy of what would be my last run of the season.

When I hit the flats, ran out of speed, and came to a stop and turned around to look at my tracks, I thought,

“Damn, girl, high five, that’s some badass snowboarding you just did.”

And the clouds parted briefly and God turned his holy sky spotlight onto the summit and the beam of light traced my tracks all the way down to the valley as if to say,

“Damn girl, high five, that’s some badass snowboarding you just did.”

And He saw the tracks and saw they were good. And she saw the tracks and saw they were good. And content, strapped her snowboard back onto her back, put her crampons on, and returned to the refugio.

My tracks on Cerro Negro. That triangle to the right is what I snowboarded down, starting at the little whit epatc to the right of the summit (the summit itself had some pretty gnarly cornices followed by cliffs, so I avoided).

Anneke had had herself a pretty badass line as well, and even though “it was only, like 3 minutes! All that hiking for 3 minutes!” I could see she had swallowed the pill and was now an addict like me.

That nice field of snow on the ridge opposite the one I was on is what Anneke cramponed up and then shredded on her first time out since breaking her arm. Proving, once, again, Aussies are badasses.

We “snowboarded” down the snowy switchbacky slope we had climbed up (I put the quotes in because with a 50 lb backpack on, you can’t exactly maneuver well enough to really snowboard. More like stand on a board and sort of scoot in a general direction and keep your fingers crossed that you don’t die, because you can’t turn or break without falling), taking a good half hour off of the time it took us to climb up, and tromped our way down the hill with the goal of making the 8:30 pm bus back to town.

We would have made it (barely), could have made it, but the closer we got to the trailhead and bus stop, the less we wanted to spend the night in the hostel. When I finally said, “Actually, I kind of want to spend another night out here…” I didn't get a chance to finish with “…I’ll walk with you to the bus stop if you want,” before Anneke said, “Metoo”. 

So we got to the spot where we had stashed our food and cooking gear, unstashed it, hiked a bit further to a nice spot where we could camp for the night, and set up camp. There was rain forecast and the clouds had rolled in, and since Anneke didn't have a tent we were worried about rain, but found a spot with thick enough trees and I had some garbage bags to cover her and we figured if worst came to worst, we’d have a bad night’s sleep but catch the 6:30 am bus back to town and warm up at the hostel.

We cooked our pasta and tuna fish dinner (way to much food, but we ate it), attempted to make our wine palatable by heating it (which just made it worse), and collapsed into our respective sleeping bags for a full night of rain-free sleep. Which didn't mean that we were bright-eyed and busy-tailed when my alarm went off at 5:45 am, but at least we made that 6:30 am bus.

River view on the hike out.

And with that, I packed away my splitboad and snowboard for the season and shifted gears to what I thought (wrongly, in some cases) would be less snowy adventures in Southern Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego, starting with a 36 hour bus ride from Bariloche to Ushuaia.

I returned to Bariloche with my family in December and made one final pilgrimage to some of the refugios I had missed, including Refugio Lopez on Cerro Lopez and a re-visit to Italia where, instead of snowboarding like in this story, my sister and I surfed sliding piles of scree on our way down to Laguna Negra (story to come). I also rang in the new year in Refugio Otto Meiling on Cerro Tronador with Anneke before finally saying goodbye to Bariloche for this trip.

The Splitboarding the Refugios of Bariloche Summary

I had the time of my life hauling my splitboard for days for my several 3-minute snow runs. I freaking love snow, love mountains, love sleeping in my iced-over bivvy sack under some of the clearest night skies I've ever seen. I spent every weekend in Bariloche incredibly, deeply, blissfully happy. Like, laughing and smiling for no particular reason happy, just because the mountains were so goddamned beautiful and I was in them and holyshitlifeisawesome. When was the last time I was this happy this often? I honestly don’t know, but definitely not since I was a teenager.

Me, in my Happy Place

This means something. Something I always knew but tried to hope was not true because it makes things difficult. That I belong, belong need require, in the mountains. In the mountains. Not within driving distance of them. Not within sight of them. In them. Real ones. Big ones. Mountains with snow and steep faces to jump off on my snowboard. Mountains I can retreat to for peace and quiet and stars and solitude.

So that makes the future easier, because now my job isn't to find a job, it’s to find a way to live in the mountains, be it as a scientist or as a refugiera or as a crazy hermit with a herd of goats. It’s not to find a lover, it’s to take mountains as my lovers, because they make me happy. Desperately, gloriously, soul-dancingly happy.

Also actual dancingly happy.

A special thank you to Fernando (a.k.a. Helpful Fernando) at the Club Andino for the tips and advice! Also to all of the Refugieros whose hospitality, friendliness, and excellent skills in the kitchen made the experience an especially delightful one.

Postcard Contest 1: Santiago

I arrived in Santiago yesterday afternoon following a reverse of my Paso Los Libertadores trip two weeks ago, once again chasing snow.

To celebrate over 1000 blog views (wow!!) and get people to start leaving comments on the blog, I'm going to run a series of contests where I ask geography, regional culture, trivia, etc. questions. The prize for the first person to answer correctly will be a postcard from wherever I'm at.

So, without further ado, Question Number Uno!

When I arrived yesterday in Santiago, nearly all of the stores and many restaurants were closed, making it very difficult to feed myself. Why?

View from the hostel I stayed at in Santiago

Another view from the hostel,
this time playing around with spiffy new HDR software.
Like it?

Again, first person to leave a comment here (not in your head, not in Facebook, not by email, here in the comments section, those be the rules) with the correct answer gets a postcard! You do have to leave your name so I know how to contact you and get your address. Let the fun begin!

Disclaimer: I can only send you a postcard if I am able to get your mailing address. I will announce winners when I have internet access, which may be as long as a week after the contest is announced, so be patient! Also, I make no promises as to when I will send the postcard. As of yet--almost 3 weeks into my trip--I have yet to see any places even selling postcards. But, at some point, I will send it, pinky swear.

Announcement

This just happened. (WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!)

So now the big news:

I'm fulfilling a long-held dream to do a year-long round-the-world trip, starting in Santiago de Chile, and I fly out on Saturday!

And I have a blog!

Wheeeeee!!!

More to come, but set your bookmarks now, because it's going to be awesome.