August 15, 2012, Argentina. After a warm reunion with Claudio—whom I had missed after two weeks apart—we left Bariloche and headed toward Valdivia. Every time I cross the border between Argentina and Chile, I worry they’ll suspect me of being a mule because of all the supplements I carry. This was my fourth border crossing in the past month.

As usual, the authorities conducted a thorough drug search of our bus in El Bolsón, strangely far from the actual border. Claudio told me the customs officers use a chew-toy-like rag filled with cocaine, marijuana, and other drugs to get the dogs excited. When they’re ready to search, they snatch the rag away and let the dogs loose on the luggage. I wondered if the dog might sniff out my honey and bread—but I suppose they’re trained to target specific substances. One dog pawed at a bag, which was set aside for further inspection. All of us had to bring down our bags—food, luggage, personal items—for screening.

Crossing into Chile brought a wave of relief. Transportation and food are about six times cheaper than in Argentina, oddly enough, given that gas is far less expensive on the Argentine side. The rest of the trip passed uneventfully. We lucked out and got the same top front seats on the double-decker bus—a perfect perch for viewing the landscape. Claudio took some beautiful photos. We rolled into Valdivia around 8 p.m.

Unfortunately, we were immediately approached by a woman who preyed on naïve tourists. She claimed to have a place just 12 minutes from the city center. We paid for the cab, only to discover that the room was moldy and nearly an hour’s walk from downtown. I said no. She vanished into the night. The building looked like something from the Soviet Union—rarely have I seen uglier architecture.

At that point, I had only 2,000 Chilean pesos left—just enough to catch a cab back into the center. I hadn’t been able to withdraw any money from the ATM. We dropped our bags at Las Gringas Café, my favorite spot in Valdivia, and started searching the neighborhood for hostels or hospedajes. We found a clean, well-kept hostel, but it was pricey—8,500 CLP for a shared dorm or 20,000 CLP per person for a private room. Eventually, we found a pension a few blocks from the river, run by an eccentric Chilean woman who had married a German man. She charged extra for everything—including toilet paper and hot water. There was barely space to move once we set our bags down, so I had to use the bed as a springboard to reach the door.

The next few days passed peacefully. I took long walks to the University of Chile Austral’s botanical gardens and explored the nearby experimental forest, which features both non-native tree plantations and sections of wild native forest. I also visited Parque Saval, a beautiful municipal park with a sculpture garden, forest trails, and a quiet lagoon. One day I tried to get to Parque Oncol but never made it. I got lost in the back reaches of the experimental forest, which runs for miles along a bend in the river. The trails were wild and overgrown, with winding paths through towering trees, open meadows, and even marshland with planked boardwalks. I lost all track of time. The beauty and stillness of the woods left me feeling grounded again—refreshed with every step.

On my last day, I walked along the road connecting Isla Teja—with its charming, elm-shingled homes—to the larger island where Niebla sits. I had walked about three miles when I met Miguel, a musician with a guitar slung over his back, waiting for a bus. We decided to hitchhike together and were lucky to get two rides in quick succession, the second one dropping us right at his house.

The road conditions out there were rough—unpaved, stone-littered, and only traveled by a few vehicles per hour. Miguel invited me to wait at his place, and we took a walk to the coast. I’d originally hoped to visit the park, still 9 km down another dirt road, but given the time, I opted for the shorter route.

What I hadn’t realized was that I still had 15 miles or so to walk back to Valdivia. Unluckily, the bus decided not to run that day, for reasons I never learned. I continued walking with Miguel and his dog as the sun began to set. We talked about life on the road, folklore music, hermit life, and his father—a tailor and musician from Santiago. Miguel often travels with his guitar and currently lives rent-free in a friend’s remote cabin. His life is nearly monastic, rarely seeing people unless he walks into town.

We eventually parted ways, and I continued along the winding dirt road. An old Mapuche woman passed me, flashing a toothy smile. We spoke briefly about walking long distances and the unreliability of buses. “I can still walk,” she said proudly. It grew dark and still, and I had the sinking feeling that no bus would come. I was right. Only one car passed in two hours, and I waved it down with all the energy I had left. The driver was heading to Valdivia. He already had two passengers—common in rural Chile, where locals often act as informal taxis. I chatted with the woman in the back until she reached her stop. The driver, it turned out, was self-employed in Valdivia and was building a summer home near the coast.

Back in town, I reunited with Claudio. We watched a free film sponsored by the German Club—a fictional account of Jackson Pollock’s life—then returned to Las Gringas Café to wait for our bus to Santiago. I made a mistake interpreting military time and thought 21:00 meant 11 p.m., not 9 p.m. So we missed the bus. The company refused to refund our tickets, and every other company said we’d have to wait until morning—which meant sleeping in the terminal.

By luck, a bus pulled in, and we asked if it was headed to Santiago. It was. We jumped aboard and found two open seats. Around 3 a.m., we had to move when new passengers boarded. We finally made it to Santiago by morning—around the same time the original bus would have arrived. The ride was wild; the driver hurtled down the highway so fast the top of the double-decker bus swayed like a redwood in a windstorm. It felt like I was in a movie.