world travel – Two Travelin' Chicas…

And in the end–Patagonia

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.

Simply–Patagonia

We didn’t just arrive here—we earned it.

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.

And we turn around… to do it all again.

Insanity?

Maybe.

But it feels a lot more like adventure.

Torn at Many Levels

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

When is Enough…Enough?!?

It feels as though the world’s leaders have lost their minds. As if they’ve slipped into a dangerous game of power and ego, moving pieces across a board without regard for the lives beneath their hands. And the rest of us, “we the people”, are left standing in fear and disbelief, asking the same question over and over again: What on earth is happening inside their heads?

It is not the powerful who pay the price for this madness. It is the people of every nation…the families, the neighbors, the children – who carry the weight of political insanity and unchecked greed. Not greed for what is rightfully theirs, but hunger for what belongs to everyone else. Somewhere along the way, the balance tipped. The power of the people was quietly traded for the power of the power-hungry. And now we are left wondering: when did this happen… and when will enough finally be enough?

The death toll rises across the globe. Once, as US Americans, we watched distant horrors unfold on foreign soil, believing – naively, that they could never reach us. Now that violence has been carried to our own doorsteps. We the people are no longer observers. We are witnesses. We are participants. And it is time…long past time – to pull our heads from the sand. There can be no more looking away. No more pretending this is someone else’s problem. It is time to wake up, to smell the gunpowder and tear gas, and to say with one voice: enough is enough!

The message we’re fed is muddled and poisonous…voices everywhere, shouting over one another, spewing hate, distraction, and recycled lies. A fog of smoke and mirrors meant to confuse, divide, and exhaust us. And still, astonishingly, so many cling to it. But others are stirring. Others are seeing clearly. Others are standing up and whispering, then speaking, then shouting: this is not okay.

I hear the sorrow in the voices of friends and family left behind to gather the pieces of shattered lives day after day. I see their courage as they stand for what they believe in, even when the deck is cruelly stacked against them. I feel it when my own family must walk into a grocery store accompanying a neighbor, afraid to go alone. That fear brings me to tears. This was once a peaceful place to call home.

When did it become acceptable to plant terror in the soil of a society? When did killing in cold blood become normalized? When did mass violence stop shocking us?

We now watch armed, masked men fire into crowds. We see chemical agents – once banned by the world, now used on citizens. And then we hear the lies, smooth and shameless, poured from the mouths of leaders as the moral fabric of the United States frays before our eyes. It is shameful.

Some days my faith wavers. My resolve feels thin. The obstacles loom so large they seem impossible to climb. And yet…somewhere deep inside – my heart steadies itself and keeps beating. Because even surrounded by madness, truth still exists. Because even drowned out by noise, compassion still speaks. The lies and the truth are both on full display now, painted in living color. And we are being asked, urgently, to choose.

Our lives are already being disrupted. Maybe not by bombs falling from the sky, not yet…but by fear, division, and the slow erosion of safety and trust. The tipping point is no longer ahead of us. It is here. We can choose to stand, peacefully, courageously, together – or we can hide and hope the storm passes us by. History has shown us where silence leads.

This moment is calling us back to ourselves. Back to humanity. Back to the understanding that power has always belonged to the people when they remember who they are. Not through violence, but through unity. Not through hate, but through truth. Not through fear, but through love that refuses to be extinguished.

So I ask again…not in despair, but in determination:
When is enough, enough?

I believe the answer is rising, quietly but unmistakably, from the hearts of people everywhere.

Peace over adversity: Which will win?

As I sit here, far from the land I once called home, I feel like a castaway – safe enough in body, but restless in spirit. My heart has never left the people who don’t have the luxury of distance, who cannot step away, who must stay and endure and fight, quietly or loudly – for the simple right to live in peace.

I watch eighteen monks walking from Texas to Washington, DC. Eighteen human beings placing one foot in front of the other, blister by blister, mile by mile. They carry no weapons, no demands…only the radical offering of compassion. They speak to anyone willing to listen, reminding us that peace is not something granted by power, but something cultivated within. Their message is soft, ancient, and profoundly inconvenient.

And then I look at the other image unfolding at the same time: injustice normalized, cruelty excused, violence absolved by the very regime meant to protect its people. My eyes fill with tears at the stark polarity of it all. Love walking barefoot on asphalt, and brutality signing itself into law. How can these two truths exist in the same place, at the same moment?

Yes, peace begins within us. Yes, we must stand for those to whom violence is being delivered and disguised as order. But how do we reconcile this duality? A nation split down its own spine…grieving, angry, afraid. A war within our borders, fought by people turned into instruments, while those pulling the strings keep their hands clean of blood.

What breaks my heart most is knowing that this violence comes from flesh and blood no different from my own. That human beings, mostly masked men, can commit such harm with such malice, then return home and sleep. Your mother is watching you, your wives, sons and daughters. That evil does not arrive as a monster, but as a neighbor, a voter, a uniform, a signature on a page.

And yet… somewhere beneath the grief, a quieter truth persists: this does not have to be the end of the story.

I wrestle with forgiveness…for those who empowered this harm, who waved it through with one stroke of a pen, one push of a voter button. The ones who dismissed warnings as exaggeration, cruelty as “fake news,” consequences as something that would only happen to others. Someday, this will reach your doorstep too. Not as a headline, but as a reckoning. And I struggle, deeply, with how to hold compassion for that truth without surrendering accountability.

So I return to the monks.

Eighteen figures against the noise. Silent, aching, devoted. How can something so small withstand such chaos? Maybe it can’t…at least not in the way we measure power. But perhaps the outpouring of love, the tears, the prayers, the witnessing – that is how peace moves from an abstract ideal into something rooted, something lived. Not to heal the world all at once, but to heal hearts, one by one.

A forest does not begin with full-grown trees. It begins with a seed…fragile, buried, fighting through cold and heat, breaking open in darkness before it ever reaches the light. Strength is not loud at first. It is persistent.

We may not be able to meet might with might. But I am reminded of an old photograph from the 1960s: a single flower placed into the muzzle of a gun. A quiet refusal. A reminder that even in the face of violence, there are those who choose tenderness…not because it is weak, but because it is brave.

And maybe, just maybe, that is how the work begins. 🌱

Is the Grass Really Greener?

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.

The list goes on.

It’s the dry season now.

We shall see how green the grass stays.

As the holiday season begins –

This Thanksgiving, we embrace gratitude for the calm we’ve built and compassion for those missing loved ones. Together, we honor the enduring bonds that transcend distance.

This year, Thanksgiving feels different.

It feels heavier… and somehow, more sacred.

Because while Chris and I wake up each morning surrounded by peace — free from the grinding stress that once sat on our shoulders — we know that so many others are carrying a very different weight right now.

A weight made of fear, of sudden goodbyes, of families torn apart by harsh policies and heartless raids. There are empty chairs at tables today not because of distance or choice, but because loved ones were taken, uprooted, scattered. Entire families are living with a quiet ache that never seems to lift.

Yet in the middle of all that heartbreak… there is still gratitude.

Chris and I are deeply, humbly thankful for the life we’ve been able to build here in Costa Rica — for the calm, the safety, the space to breathe again. And we’re just as grateful for the people who keep our hearts stitched together across countries: the friends who have become family here, and the loved ones in the States whose connection remains a steady, grounding presence.

We’re thankful for every message, every visit, every shared laugh across borders — reminders that love doesn’t weaken with distance; it grows stronger, more intentional, more cherished.

So today we’re holding two truths side by side: Gratitude for the peace we have… and compassion for those spending this holiday with pieces missing.

To everyone feeling that empty space at the table, that tug of worry, that longing for someone who should be here — you are not invisible. You are carried in the hearts of many.

May the days ahead bring comfort where there has been fear, hope where there has been loss, and reunions where there have been far too many separations.

My love and heartfelt wishes for a reflective holiday season.

Rain and Rejuvenation

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.

A new beginning

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!

Moving on: Five years on the road

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!