Returning to life?

We quizzed our veteran overland friends on the homecoming and transition process. The general consensus was bleak.  We just spent 15 months living out our wildest dream and the hangover from that sustained high was sure to be severe.

For the last three years our mission, mantra, purpose could be summed up in five letters: PAN AM.  Once you board that plane, it’s all over.

Mixed emotions on the plane home

We left a lot of ourselves out there on the road less traveled.  Our egos and identities would be in dire need of substance.  Like the first days on the PanAm we would be green and vulnerable.

Yet in place of the anticipated misery, we find ourselves oddly content. Serving up country coffee at the local diner and wrangling cattle under the warm Nebraska sun, you won’t find us without a smile. This new version of the United States that we left behind has us smitten.

Sipping coffee on our front porch in the morning we discuss the past journey and it fills us with immense joy and emotion. Heading south from San Francisco on that cold January morning in 2010 was the best decision we’ve made yet. It is changing our lives and our being in ways we are still becoming accustomed to.

Our home on the plains

A 22,000 mile self supported journey to the end of the world feels like a jumping off point for infinite adventure. The PanAm was just the first of many. Casually throwing around “impossible” ideas is our new normal.

For the first time we have a big crazy goal over and done.  Accomplished. Behind us.  Luckily we don’t need to talk about it, because we don’t. For whatever reason, everybody we run into is more concerned about our future than the trip.  And that’s just fine with us because we are too.

Over and Out

Thank you for being a part of our journey. If you take just one thing away from PanAmNotes please let it be this: Stop whatever you’re doing and throw yourself at the wildest idea you can muster up. ¡Vamos!

Lakin' and bakin'

There would be no more kidding ourselves about the end.  This was it and it filled us both with a deeply unsettling heartache. A final dirt road venture would be our coup de grace.

This was our kind of PanAm perfection, deserted roads, lonely landscapes, crystal clear lake water, sunshine, and a roaring fire each night. Wide open space filled only with our quiet thoughts and the occasional parrot’s cry flitting across the water and in between the trees.

Lone sunset caster

Not about the catch

Namaste

Rum and coke sunset

All in the wrist

We spent more time living outside during our tour of the Lakes District than we had in quite some time. There was a natural ease about it and it felt like a fitting throwback to our first days on the PanAm.  Nothing could stand in the way of our excitement for the unknown, the thrill of daily uncertainty, the giddy anticipation for places just like this.

Many toasts were made, campfire conversation was ample, a few books were read and no fish were caught.  Seven lakes and seven days came and went.

Where we worship

Total calm derived from the simplest of pleasures

PanAmNotes' last campsite

"We'll tell our grandkids about this one."

Sunshine means grillin' in this camper

Thanks to Carl and Heather, we’ve been rescued from the soul crushing fiasco that is vehicle shipping. We hand over the keys in just a couple weeks and they’ll begin their PanAm journey north.  15 months ago we happily downsized our lives from a one-bedroom apartment to a truck camper. There is no storage unit back home, now we must figure out how to fit what’s left of our material lives into a few backpacks. Too much STUFF!

Meanwhile on the home front, things are solidifying. Fast.  Like so many overlanders, our road life was the focus, what came next was a vague unknown. But now I have a job, we have a house, even a dog named Tripper waiting for us at home.  The unexpected departure of an employee at Wine Glass Ranch synchs up perfectly with our arrival home and I’ll be stepping in to fill the gap. We’ll be moving into the ranch house both my grandparents and great grandparents once called home.

In a way it is temporary.  I’ll be helping out only over the summer, but in reality it is a taste of what is to come.  On our first date to Gino’s Pizza in Santa Barbara, Brianna could barely take a bite before the words cattle, Nebraska, and ranching came tumbling out of my mouth.  Ranching is a permanent fixture in our future, but a few more wild ideas are on the table before we settle down into its permanence.

Stephen Weaver 's photograph of an archetypal Great Plains scene -- sunset over a rolling sea of grass. Sandhills of western Nebraska

And that’s not all folks.  We sell the camper on 3/15, start work on 4/9.  For those precious weeks in between we’ll be celebrating St. Patty’s day in Buenos Aires, visiting an old friend in Brazil for our one year wedding anniversary, and returning home in time to catch a spring training baseball game in Arizona.  Just before the real world hits us, we plan to visit some dear friends in Colorado.  “Home” will have to wait.

Celebrating the next chapter at El Bolson Cervezeria

In Patagonia the summer is all too short and nearing its end. The rain and cold are holding us indoors.  In between the rare sunny days, 26 applications to work in Antarctica have been fired off. Our minds wonder while our bodies still wander. The Appalachian Trail and, of course, the current Cape Town to Cairo overland crew continue to spark our growing imaginations.

Home. Our own slice of America. We’re anxious to get there now that we know what is waiting.

Tripper says "Come home soon!"

Photo from Santiago Times

Despite the remarkably relaxed atmosphere in town, we learned fuel service had been suspended for the past three days. This was hard to believe, no one seemed bothered. The military presence on every other corner seemed like overkill. Soldiers in riot gear had no one to preside over except kids flying by on bicycles and tourists browsing local crafts. So we followed suit, wasting away the weekend chatting with a local fly-fishing guide.

Stocked up on Bloody Mary supplies and got down to business

At sun up on Monday the town awoke and started lining up at the Copec gas station. We arrived late to find the line was already occupying 16 city blocks, nearly two miles long. There was no gas, no promise of gas arriving, just a rumor that a tanker might arrive after sundown.

We pulled in line and waited. For 13 hours we sat, advancing whenever somebody ahead of us gave up hope. Sundown came and saw only the arrival of a peaceful protest. The Aysen region is fed up and has been for many years now. Here are their demands.

The gas station is well out of sight, about 10 blocks away

"End the rape of the environment"

The banners and flags proclaimed a wide range of united dissent

After sundown our fellow waiters began to abandon their cars, saving their place for the night. We gave in, popped up, and settled in for some urban camping. But at 10:30 people were sprinting toward their vehicles, every car on the block firing up their engines, and joyous shouts of “petrol, petrol!” filled the streets.

At this point there are nearly a thousand vehicles in the line, hundreds both ahead and behind us. Polite line etiquette is a thing of the past, every man for himself. Bleary eyed and pajama clad we scramble to the truck, forgetting the surfboard and whacking the still popped up camper into an overhead grocery store sign.

We don’t know why but suddenly people are freaking out. Flairs are going up and chaos is taking hold. Along with the sun, the peace has vanished and things are turning ugly. People running from the scene stop to warn us: ¡Tiene que salir! (you have to leave). We didn’t know it at the time but they had taken down an electrical transistor and set it ablaze with anything they could get their hands on.

Far from our spot in line, this was the scene at the edge of town

They had successfully intercepted the fuel truck with a flaming road block. To celebrate the achievement they were headed back to town, coming directly at us, throwing bricks and rocks at anything and everything. We got the hell out of there, warning other overlanders on our way out (a French family asleep in their RV!).

Early the next morning, the long line had vanished. Pulling up nearer the gas station we realized they had gas! An hour later we had our rationed 6 gallons… Combined with our 5 gallon jerry can we could make Rio Mayo in Argentina.

Not quite awake, but happy to be in a moving line

In the cold light of day, the aftermath is a little unsettling

Barely popped down and making a hasty retreat

We headed out of town via a little-used dirt road squeezing around still smoldering piles of rubbish (and nails!) before arriving at one well-manned roadblock. For one hour each day they allow passenger cars to cross. We buzzed by at the tail-end of this window. Three hours and a border crossing later we pulled into Rio Mayo Argentina on fumes learning they too were out of gas.

That's about right

**Luck was on our side, it seems we saw the last fuel tanker for a while. Our friends over at Bodeswell are still waiting**