Puerto Varas was a quaint and lovely little German enclave.  I learned a bit of history as I spent a few hours walking around, looking for lodging.  The Chilean government had recruited Europeans – especially Germans – in the 1800s to move to Chile and cultivate the land.  Much of the architecture and many of the street and business names reflect this European influx and its lasting influence on the place.  

    In Entre Lagos, I stayed in what was another home that had been added onto and converted into a hostel.  I stayed in the new part, on the other side of the garage, in a room barely big enough to hold a twin size bed.  In the morning, they gave me an egg, baloney, and cheese sandwich and half of another.  They let me fill up my thermos with instant coffee and wished me well on my way to Lago Ranco.

    The mountains of the south were subsiding, and I crossed from the Lakes Region to the Rivers Region.  Raining.  Misty.  Curvy.  Wet fields and pastures and farmlands and beehives.  I had grown accustomed to these luscious, drizzly drives.  

    Valdivia was the largest city I’d seen in two months, and I wasn’t feeling very urban.  I found a place to camp in the van 25 minutes away, in Los Molinos. Patricia talked me into staying in a small cabin with a stove, frig, and kitchen table facing two windows that opened up to the ocean, 100 ft. below.

    I spent four nights amidst the constant chorus of waves and the intermittent solos of seagulls, fishermen, and motors.  In the evening, the birds would circle, dive, and dance in the dying light of the day.  I stared at the great ships docked on the other side of the bay.  The second part of my master plan, after ghost-riding the van into the sea down south, had been to seek passage on a boat leaving a Chilean port.  I always thought “Valparaíso” had a logical, lyrical ring to it.

    I befriended the compound’s cat, gathered kindling and made fires in the wood-burning stove, cooked, ate, rested, admired everything, and finished tagging 23,000 photos and videos.

    I spent two nights camping in Pucón, sharing a kitchen and meals with a French couple from Paris and Lyon.  I shared the lament of my imminent return home with the way things were.  We spoke of the beauty of our respective lands and about September 11.

    I passed through Parque Nacional Conguillío, its landscapes marked by volcanic activity.  Snow-capped mountains overlooked thick trees, fields of melted rock, streams, waterfalls, ponds, and lakes.  

    Perhaps the most fruitful connection of the roadtrip was two days’ drive away, in Talca.  As providence would have it, my buddy back in Billings had a business partner in Chile.  Rhyno had reached out before I left Billings, and I had put the contact deep in my back pocket.

    17 months later, in succession, I had gotten a bite on the van and reached into that back pocket and made contact with Rhyno’s partner just before arriving at Pilicura.  I climbed through caves, hiked on hills, meditated on the sea and the sky and the journey.

    I slinked slowly northward the next day, finally settling on Loanco, just before sunset.  I captured the golden sun slipping into the ocean, the lighthouse to the north, pink sunlight on shelves of rock to the south, small, abandoned boats, and buzzards picking on a dead sea lion.  I didn’t know these would be my parting shots.  I didn’t know it would be my last night of the roadtrip proper.  Sometimes the end of a road chooses you.

    The next day, I was warmly welcomed by Jan Eric, Karina, and their three children.  They showed me around Talca, took me with them on errands, and invited me to my first proper asado…

    Karina’s brother, René, invited us over.  We sat on his patio on comfortable couches, chatting about my roadtrip and assorted topics large and small.  All the while, René surreptitiously barbecued some massive cuts of beef, pulled a slab off the grill, sliced it into small strips, and placed it on a serving board between us.  When that was gone, he prepared another one.  It was the most memorable feast of my entire life.

    I spent ten grateful days with Jan Eric and Karina, most of which was spent on communications, negotiations, and paperwork regarding the sale of one 2005 Dodge Grand Caravan.  They were angels - exactly who I needed, exactly where I needed them.  Sadly, Jan Eric would pass away on June 18, 2020, too soon at the age of 37.

    I wept as I cleaned her out and put clean sheets on her bed.  I pulled my bugout bag out of the topper and filled it with a few things.  As was custom, the buyer bought the van and all of its contents.  One can only carry so many things on a plane.

    I climbed inside her, numb and speechless.  She had sat for a year and a half.  I wondered if she thought her life was over.  It hadn’t even begun.

    If she could, I wonder if she would kiss me or curse me, hug me or shove me.  We saw and did so much together.  She did most of the work.  She was my chariot, my concert hall, my library, my classroom, my doctor’s couch, my closet, my kitchen, my bedroom, my cave, my refuge.  She was my home for 472 days.

    She should not have made it down some of the roads I took her on.  But she did.  She did everything I asked her to do, every time I asked her to do it.  She took me quite literally to the end of the earth.  

    On April 11, 2018, in Talca, Chile, the official roadtrip came to an end.  Nathan turned La Bestia Verde around and they headed back south, to what I can only assume to be her delight.