My artist finally stirred again—quietly at first, then with intention—and decided it was time to create.
I first made a white-water rafting piece while in Chile, and this one is its miniature companion, brought to life here at home in Costa Rica. It’s not tied to a single memory, but to something we’ve always loved—the pulse of the river, the teamwork, the thrill of moving through wild water together.
The entire scene fits in the palm of my hand—about 6 inches long and 3 inches wide, waves and base included. The raft itself is just 2 by 3 inches, and the paddlers… no bigger than your little toe. Tiny, intricate, and somehow still full of motion.
It took most of the day to complete—hours of careful focus and quiet immersion. There’s something grounding about working so small, about shaping energy and movement into something you can hold.
And so we arrive at the quiet terminus of our northward journey—not with a grand finale, but with that soft, reflective stillness that comes when something beautiful has run its course.
What began on the Futaleufú River–unfolded into 875 kilometers of winding roads and wonder along the Carretera Austral, carrying us south to Puerto Río Tranquilo and then gently back north to Puerto Varas. But distance feels like such a small measure now. What we gathered along the way cannot be mapped in kilometers.
There were days when the sun broke through, spilling gold across jagged peaks and glacial rivers so impossibly turquoise they felt imagined. And then there were the rains—the long, steady Patagonian rains that blurred the edges of the world and pulled us inward. Yet even then, especially then, the landscape held its magic. Mist clung to the mountains like breath, waterfalls awakened everywhere at once, and the road ahead felt like a secret slowly revealing itself.
We were not without our small missteps—a tire with its slow leak interrupted our plans—but even that became part of the story. It led us, unexpectedly, into the warmth and generosity of strangers, into shared laughter and gestures that needed no translation. In those moments, Chile revealed itself not just in its landscapes, but in its people.
The road demanded something of us. It was good, yes—but never easy. It asked for patience, attention, humility. And in return, it offered glimpses into a life shaped by resilience. The places we stayed—simple, weathered, full of character—felt like quiet witnesses to generations who carved out existence in this wild and beautiful edge of the world.
We stumbled through Spanish, sometimes clumsily, sometimes triumphantly, and in doing so found connection. We met people who, for a moment, became part of our story. Some will remain only as flickers in memory—a shared meal, a passing conversation, a smile exchanged on the roadside. Others… perhaps we will meet again, somewhere unexpected, as travelers do.
Because that is the quiet truth we carry with us now—the world, vast as it seems, has a way of folding in on itself. Paths cross. Stories intertwine. And somewhere down another road, in another country, a familiar face may appear again like a gift.
And so we leave this stretch of Patagonia not as we arrived, but fuller—of wonder, of gratitude, of moments that will live on in the hidden corners of our minds and as a steady glow in our hearts.
Our southward push along the Carretera Austral has finally brought us to the edge of how far we were willing to go. Not because the road ends, but because something in us said: this is enough… for now. Mile by mile, the signs had been stacking up—subtle at first, then undeniable—whispering that Puerto Río Tranquilo would be our turning point.
And then came yesterday’s drive.
Six hours that didn’t just pass—they pressed into us.
The kind of hours where you feel small in the most humbling, awe-struck way. We are nothing more than passing specks in a landscape that feels eternal—mountains rising like walls of time, valleys carved by glaciers that were here long before us, rivers born from snowmelt rushing with quiet authority toward the sea.
Everywhere you look, something is falling—water spilling from impossible heights, cascading down cliffs as if the mountains themselves are unraveling. Around each blind curve, another scene steals your breath: trees clinging to landslide scars, their fallen kin scattered below like bones in the valley.
The rivers are unreal—turquoise, pale blue, glowing as if lit from within. They surge and twist, hurling themselves over edges, dissolving into mist that catches the light and becomes fleeting rainbows. Above it all, jagged spires of granite pierce the sky—entire cities of stone reaching upward, their snow-dusted peaks vanishing into thick, wandering clouds.
And then—just when you think the palette couldn’t deepen—autumn arrives. Reds. Golds. Entire hillsides set quietly on fire against the endless green of the forest. Open fields stretch out like a breath between heartbeats… only to be interrupted by mountains that shoot straight into the blue, unapologetic and immense.
And the road?
It doesn’t guide you—it tests you.
Sometimes smooth, often not, it coils through the land like a living thing. One moment you’re gliding, the next you’re gripping the wheel through mud thick enough to swallow tires. Hairpin turns come without warning. Massive trucks and buses take up more than their share of the road, forcing you to trust instinct over sight. And somehow, others fly past at impossible speeds, spraying mud and indifference in every direction.
So yes… this is where we stop.
Not because we can’t go further—but because we’ve seen enough to understand what this place is asking of us.
And still, we’ll turn around and do it all again.
Because that’s the thing about this journey—there’s one way in and out–it gets under your skin.
Along the way, it isn’t just the land that leaves a mark. It’s the people.
Like William and Anna, from Argentina. We met them at a lodge tucked deep along a fjord lake—so remote the outside world simply… disappeared. No signal. No distractions. Just water, mountains, and whoever happened to be there with you.
Dinner wasn’t really a choice—either the formal restaurant or the quieter bar. We chose the bar. That’s where we met Sebastián, the bartender who softened the edges of the place, and where William and Anna waved us over.
What started as shared space turned into shared stories—half English, half Spanish, all laughter. The kind of conversation that feels easy and rare at the same time. And just like that, by morning, they were gone. A fleeting connection, sealed in memory.
Patagonia has a way of doing that—giving you moments you can’t keep, only carry.
And then there’s the heat beneath all this ice.
Hot springs—unexpected, almost surreal in a land that feels carved from cold. The lodge itself existed because of them. Steam rising into crisp air, water pulled from deep within the earth, warmed by the same volcanic forces that shaped this entire region.
Some springs are nothing more than a hollow in the rocks, others feel like hidden sanctuaries—caves, pools, small cascades of warmth. You sink in, and for a moment, the cold, the road, the miles… they all dissolve.
It’s nature’s quiet kindness.
And all along this journey, we keep catching glimpses of other places we’ve known. A waterfall that feels like Iceland. Peaks that echo the Dolomites. Glaciers that pull us back to Alaska. Then suddenly, a stretch of land that could be the American Southwest, or a valley straight out of the Rockies.
It’s as if Patagonia holds fragments of the world—but refuses to be compared to any of it.
Eight hundred seventy-five kilometers. Roads that challenge you. Ferries that carry you. Landscapes that stay with you long after you’ve passed through them.
And now, we pause.
We exhale.
We loosen our grip on the wheel, uncurl fingers that didn’t realize how tightly they were holding on.
I gaze into the glow of a blank screen, listening to voices dripping venom, men in masks spitting hate as unseen puppeteers tug the strings… violence dispensed like cheap candy, their mouths snapping open like machines built only to wound.
And yet beyond that darkness, the people gather. They rise in quiet reverence, a hush that holds more power than any shouted threat.
I watch the monks reach the end of their long walk, a pilgrimage carved in bare feet and prayer, a walk for peace that has brushed against thousands of hearts and left them trembling awake.
We stand with them… hands clasped, souls yearning, hoping their gentle wisdom might shift the tides, open the eyes long sealed by fear, send a wave of love sweeping across a land torn open by ignorance and stitched with lies.
Our nation’s cloth hangs shredded in the wind. And still… we hold the edges, refusing to let it all come apart.
It is time to turn the page before the snake slithers out and consumes the fragile hope we’ve just lifted from the hat.
Can hope rise above this? Can peace be nurtured in soil scorched by division? Can its roots dig deep enough to cradle the lost as they stumble after false prophets into the yawning abyss?
Can we survive this season? Rebuild what was broken? Learn again to love our neighbor without trembling in our own doorway?
Can we silence the tidal wave of lies, the loud, empty rhetoric that poisons minds and sells fear to those desperate to belong even if belonging means bowing to power, forsaking truth, forgetting the dignity of honest labor and the humility of shared struggle?
Yes. But only if we choose it. Only if we step forward now… not in rage, but in courage.
Only if we admit that change is not coming unless we become it.
It is time.
Time to rise. Time to rebuild. Time to reclaim the heart that beats beneath this fractured nation and remind it softly, fiercely what it was made for:
Love. Peace. And one another.
May all beings suffering find and end to that suffering and peace. ☮️🕊️🙏🏼 J
The breeze gently caresses my face. The sound of the waves rolling softly onto the shore soothes me. A tree behind me in the jungle hums with cicadas. The tide is rising toward the full moon high, and soon we will move to higher ground. Soft music plays in the background.
My day began with deep yoga meditation and a sound bath.
I take a slow breath of clean, warm, salty air, leaving a faint taste of salt on my lips. My new friends are enjoying the surf. It feels blissful, almost trance-like.
This is my day of peace, and I offer any merit I gain simply by being kind, sharing it with all beings who are suffering.
I enter the sea, grateful for its coolness. The waves rise and crest in a foamy froth. The sun dances across the choppy water, stretching as far as I can see. I breathe and submerge beneath a crashing wave. Energy moves through my body as I rise again and breathe. Salt stings my eyes, and the current seems to flow out through my feet. The rhythm repeats, again and again.
I notice the contrast between heat and coolness and reflect on my own state of mind — peace alongside worry, tenderness beside ache. For a moment, I hold a gentle prayer for the safety of those who live for what is right, who serve not only themselves but others. My heart breathes toward their pain, their sacrifice, their suffering — with compassion and quiet hope.🕊️J
I always thought that each New Year’s Resolution I set would bring a new me. What exactly that looked like, I really never knew because I only ever did part of the footwork needed to become that “new me”.
We left on the road now almost exactly 5.5 years ago. The New Year 2026 will be that milestone. In that time, I really feel like a lot of healing has occurred. I loved the traveling, it was dynamic and filled with so many experiences that kindled growth. Mostly, I believe that the oxidation of all parts of the body, caused by stress, was the hardest to undo and repair. It rears its ugly head in so many ways, both mentally and physically.
So much has happened over this time of travel that would probably never have happened if we had stayed put in our comfort level. Not to say we are not spontaneous, and – in the minds of family and friends – probably a bit too reckless at times but we are growing a bit more reserved. I’ve said it before that travel allows the mind to become pliable again. Allows the body to be pushed to its limits and a bit beyond. It teaches you to get out of your self-centeredness and become more selfless.
We’ve now been living in Costa Rica for 9 months and in our own place for 4 months. That’s the longest we’ve stayed put in one place since we left in 2020. I guess we set our first intention in life together back when we said someday we would live here. That intention set in motion all the preparations since have led up to the moment we bought our home here. In 1993, we first came to Costa Rica and fell in love with this tiny but vast country.
With a place to become grounded once again, but with the gift of leisure now ours, this year we can not just make a New Year’s resolution, but set our intentions for the new year. More than I’m going to quit this or that, lose weight or eat better. More than empty words and promises that soon die away as the stress of life settles back in after giving it our best efforts. Ah – therein lies the difference.
Setting intentions can now include seeing how we can achieve these in our new life. It can be not a self-defeating promise but an action-packed movement towards an outcome. We can work on our bodies and our minds by utilizing this leisure time gift as if it were the gift of life itself. We can set ourselves up to succeed and achieve with few hindrances. We have the tools and guidance available all around us here, and have tapped into the knowledge that exists here. In the humans, the nature, and the natural forces of the coming time of change in our universe. If there was ever a year to do it – this is the year.
It’s an absolutely stunning morning. A week before Christmas. The sun has risen above the mountains, drying out any hint of dampness left behind by the night’s rain. A slight breeze kisses my cheek, inviting me to awaken to the promise of this day. The soulful cry of the toucans drifts through the cool air, igniting joy in my heart and bringing a smile to my face. The day’s activities have already begun.
It’s been three months since we moved to Costa Rica. Every day brings something new – some good, some not so good – but everything offers a chance to learn. We are slowly settling in, and time slips away so easily here. Some days I sit quietly on the back patio, simply taking it all in. Other days are a flurry of activity – from Tai Chi and volunteering, to ferias and multiple shopping stops to gather what’s needed to prepare wonderful meals. And of course, there are beach days. It’s amazing how much time there is once you’ve stopped. Stopped working. Stopped traveling. Stopped worrying.
We move through phases of bliss and phases of WTF are we doing here?!
This is a country of mixed messages. There are moments of total chill – when everything flows effortlessly, without a hitch. And then there are the moments marked by a lack of urgency or commitment to show up on time…if at all. The Tico people are wonderful; there is simply no rush. You can plan your entire day and watch as not one thing unfolds as expected. By day’s end, you may realize you’ve waited and waited, yet nothing has gotten done. It’s frustrating – mostly when we compare life here to life in the States. Every choice carries consequences, both good and bad. This choice was ours.
Then there are the funnies. It’s a bright, sunny day and the power blinks on and off several times within a couple of hours. It’s pouring rain – the power blinks again. This week there’s a leak in this water main line or that one, so sorry, the water will be off for a few hours – not for lack of water, mind you, there’s plenty of that. Huge green Iguanas choose our back deck for make-out sessions, then cool off in the pool afterward. Tiny spiders float endlessly from thing to thing, leaving us to walk through their strands face-first. Each morning I dust every piece of outdoor furniture, trying to stay ahead of yesterday’s web trails. Geckos poop all over everything leaving little mouse poos with white dots looking like an explanation point – guess they are making a statement. And of course, there’s the ongoing adventure of asking and answering in Spanish.
I’m sitting here on my patio watching the rain come down—again. We’ve had a ton of rain since Hurricane Melissa first appeared as a blip in the Caribbean. It must be true that October is the rainiest month in Costa Rica. We’ve had over twenty inches of rain this week, and more is falling.
And let me tell you—it knows how to rain here. It’s never just a “passing shower.” Back in Utah, we’d call these “gully washers.” For example, our pool’s water level usually sits about six inches below the lip, but last night, after just two hours of rain, it reached the overflow drain. For the next four hours, the drain couldn’t keep up, so I had to pull the cover off to let the water escape before it spilled over. Our pool is about eighteen feet long and twelve feet wide. I’m no mathematician, but that’s a lot of water.
Why did I mention Melissa?
Part of learning to live in a new country is learning its weather. We don’t have regular TV here, so most of our information and alerts come through WhatsApp. I saw a question recently posed to a local meteorologist: “If the hurricane is in the Caribbean, why is the Pacific coast getting high tide surges and flooding—while it’s sunny on the Caribbean side?”
Here’s where it gets a little nerdy. A hurricane is a living, breathing, seething wonder of nature. It pulls energy from all around it—even thousands of miles away. Just off the Pacific coast of Central America sits the Intertropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ), which holds an immense amount of humidity—a marine layer of warm, moist air. The hurricane literally pulls that ITCZ over the nearby countries, where it becomes supercharged by local weather patterns. The result? Torrential rain that can last all day.
During a “normal” rain, you can feel the humidity rising. The air gets heavy and oppressive. It’s no wonder everything here grows so fast, so big, and so green.
This week, we’ve also begun a new path toward better health—a change in diet, shifting old habits, and replacing them with more holistic practices. We’ve started giving back to our small community by volunteering and joining in the local energy and vibe. We’ve taken up Tai Chi, sound healing, and slow forms of yoga and breathing.
Today, I attended a “Morning Melt: Cacao and Devotional Singing Ceremony” at a local shop here in Uvita. There’s always some class or workshop on wellness, spirituality, or healing happening here. It’s about getting well—not just treating symptoms.
We eat fresh produce from the farmers market, grass-fed meats, and organic everything. We know where our food comes from—nothing is trucked in from far away. If it’s in season, we get it fresh. It all adds up to our main reason for moving here.
Here, in Costa Rica, we just might become young and spry again.
Plant a garden, walk on the beach, listen to the new sounds of our home, all of these gifts have been given to us in this transition. Change is for once, welcome in our lives. Days are filled with sun and rain, the yin and yang of the mother. Sometimes this all feels so enormous, and at other times, so quaint.
There’s a sense of anxiety, a little panic even, when we sit down at night, which comes early here, and look around at the little nest we are preparing for ourselves, realizing that we have stopped for a time. Longer than in the last 5+ years. Then we remind ourselves that this is not an ending, but a new beginning. A new jumping off point with a home to come back to.
Travel is in our blood, period. As I’ve said before, it keeps life new. It invigorates our souls. It inspires and challenges us. It is not always easy but always worth it! This little pause will be a time of rejuvenation, healing and relaxation. We’ve seen so much of our tiny world in the last few years of life on the road. We’ve been around the globe, in the Northern hemisphere mainly, dipping down to and just below the equator a time or two. It’s time to explore the southern hemisphere and indulge in all that this part of the world has to offer.
No, we are not done, not until we can no longer walk. Not until the breath no longer moves through us. Travel is in our blood, every inch and fiber of our beings. Even after this life expires, we will continue to travel on a different path. So stay tuned for more adventures. Laugh with us, cry with us, travel with us through our words and photos. Everyone is welcome!
In a world such as we live in, it’s easy to become enveloped in the haste, waste, and turmoil. We are often overloaded with sound, visual violence and opinions spread out on WiFi, TV and podcasts. Social media fans the flames of whatever you choose to search for.
We run around in belching cars and buses, squeeze into tubes of steel shot through tunnels underground like the voles we curse every spring. We jump into flimsy aluminum winged machines and are totally disconnected from the ground itself flung through the air to our next destination. We live in cement towers, scraping the sky, in little wooden boxes and climate controlled rooms. We walk on a foot of cement and steel below our feet. We wrap our feet in shoes and socks. Plug our ears with buds and bury our faces in our phones.
We live in a place that chooses to treat symptoms instead of sorting through to the root cause of our ‘dis-ease’.
STOP! Enough…we had to tell ourselves that this is not making us happy. We chose to become nomads.
Over the last 5 years of travel, we have learned so much. Seen so much. Encountered people and cultures that have enveloped us in their embrace. We’ve managed to become part of and welcomed into strangers’ lives. We’ve given back to the people and embraced new languages, customs and experiences. We have “family” all over the world. Our lives are so much fuller and complete. But…it’s time to stop and get grounded again. To kick off our shoes and walk in the sand, swim in the ocean and streams, become an observer of the life around us rather than being immersed in the doing. Costa Rica has won our hearts.
Seeing a beautiful bird fly through the air, hearing the myriad of sounds that subtly stimulate the senses. Watching Mother Nature unleash her fury in a place built to take it and shake it off like water on a ducks back. Being in a place so alive, where much of living is done outdoors in the abundance of nature that surrounds us. It’s deeply healing to finally be grounded. Surrounded by like minded souls that feed each other rather than take. A place of serenity and deep seated balance with the life around us. A place devoid of the negative stimulation we are so accustomed to.
I think we will find a new family here too. Awakening to a new way of life, new language, new sights and sounds. Not as a traveler or tourist, but a place to call home. Today, five years to the day we started our nomadic life, we settle down and ground ourselves in a new home in Uvita, Costa Rica.
Costa Rica has so much to give. Clean air, clean water, clean power, beautiful flora and fauna. Hell even some of the streets are paved in small towns. A country dedicated to wellness, environment and nature. A slower pace. People so friendly, my face hurts by the end of the day because everyone smiles! Everyone says hello and how are you, while standing still and waiting for your reply. There are no strangers here because once they notice your new, they want to help you in any way. Refreshing!
Two Travelin' Chicas... 