September 11, 2025, Ecuador. This was packing day. I wasn’t looking forward to trying to fit all of my recent purchases into the new duffel bag, but I approached the task systematically. After making my morning smoothie and organizing everything, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that it all fit quite easily.

Before leaving Otavalo, I wanted one last cappuccino and a chance to say goodbye to Ricardo. When I saw him, he asked whether I could mail him a backpack similar to my daypack. He thought he had found someone who could bring it into Ecuador for around thirty dollars if it weighed less than eight pounds. I told him I knew nothing about the logistics but that if he found reliable information, he was welcome to send it to me and I would be happy to help.

After saying goodbye, I stopped at my favorite café in Otavalo for a quick cappuccino. While I was there, I overheard one man confidently telling another that nobody in the market sold alpaca products. That isn’t exactly true. There is alpaca available, although most of it is blended rather than pure alpaca wool.

I returned to collect my bags, asked the cleaning woman to let me out, and thanked her for all her help. She wished me a good trip. Then I headed to the bus station.

As usual, the bus didn’t leave on time. We sat waiting for half an hour before finally departing. The trip itself seemed endless. At one point the bus stopped for twenty-five minutes. When I asked why, someone explained that they were waiting for a passenger arriving from Baños who never actually showed up. I couldn’t help thinking that they certainly would never wait that long for me.

When I arrived in Quito, the two o’clock bus to Mindo failed to appear. After asking several people for information and getting nowhere, I finally approached a security guard. He checked and confirmed that the bus wasn’t coming. The next one would leave at three o’clock.

While waiting, I met Joanna, a civil engineer who worked for the government in financial administration. She had met former president Rafael Correa on several occasions and had strong opinions about him. She described him as extremely intelligent, articulate, and hardworking. According to her, he had personally visited hospitals, infrastructure projects, and government worksites throughout the country. She said he worked almost like a machine and had an extraordinary ability to explain complex ideas in language ordinary people could understand.

At the same time, she acknowledged his flaws. In her view, he struggled with collaboration, wanted to control too many projects himself, and often took on more than anyone could realistically accomplish. She also disliked his lengthy Saturday broadcasts, which sometimes lasted four hours and frequently included attacks on political opponents.

Joanna strongly rejected many of the accusations that have been made against him in recent years. She argued that each incoming government tends to accuse the previous one of corruption or narco-trafficking. Whether one agreed with her or not, it was interesting to hear the perspective of someone who had worked within the government during that period.

Our conversation eventually shifted to broader social issues. Joanna felt that education had deteriorated significantly and that many young people spent most of their time staring at cell phones. She believed family interaction had declined and that this contributed to many of the country’s current problems.

We also discussed religion and the Catholic Church. Joanna viewed much of organized religion as a tool historically used to control populations through fear. She wasn’t religious herself and had allowed her children to make their own decisions. They attended church for a while and eventually decided it wasn’t for them.

Ironically, that conversation about religion felt particularly relevant after what happened that night. The church festival next door involved a remarkable amount of noise. Firecrackers exploded throughout the evening and into the night. Dogs barked continuously. Around six in the morning more fireworks erupted, followed by a brass band blasting trumpets, trombones, and drums at full volume. If I had been a wild animal, I would have fled the area entirely.

I finally arrived in Mindo and shared a taxi from the highway into town, paying only a dollar. After checking in, I spent the late afternoon walking around. I followed a dirt road past a gated community called Club Club and continued exploring until darkness fell.

For dinner I ordered trout with rice. It was good, but I realized that from a budget perspective the best option was usually the almuerzo, which cost about $3.50 and often included just as much food. I decided I would probably follow that strategy in the days ahead.

On my way back, I wandered into Olivia’s chocolate shop. She enthusiastically explained the various chocolate-making tours they offered. Participants could roast cacao beans, grind them, and make their own chocolate from scratch. It sounded interesting, although I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend the money. The cacao farm itself was located much farther away in a warmer, more humid climate.

Later that evening I spent over an hour talking with Olga. Much of what she told me echoed Joanna’s observations about Ecuador. She said that during Correa’s presidency her family had finally been able to buy a house, purchase a car, and acquire property. Today, she said, many families struggle simply to save money or afford food.

Her own family was fortunate because her husband managed a finca about twenty minutes away where they grew yucca, plantains, and other crops that supplemented their diet. She spoke openly about the challenges of raising her daughter, who is autistic. The diagnosis didn’t come until the girl was nine years old. Olga said it had been an incredibly difficult journey. Some psychologists and psychiatrists in Quito had offered little help, but a specialist who visited Mindo once a week had made a significant difference. Her daughter, now twenty-eight, had once refused to leave the house but could now walk a block and interact with people. Olga considered that tremendous progress.

Like many people facing difficult circumstances, Olga eventually turned to religion. After an evangelical missionary reached out to her family, she became involved with the church and remained active for twenty years. She spoke sincerely about how much comfort her faith had given her. I have noticed throughout Latin America that when life becomes extraordinarily difficult, faith often fills a role that few other institutions can.

Olga also told me about her husband’s twenty-three years working with an environmental organization in Mindo. The group had carried out educational programs, environmental protection projects, and outreach efforts throughout the region. Much of the funding came from international sources. They would bring students from surrounding communities for week-long environmental education programs and then transport them back home.

The work was not always welcomed. In the early years many local residents opposed conservation efforts because they wanted access to forests for logging and hunting. According to Olga, tensions became so intense that environmental activists occasionally faced threats of violence. Her husband regularly completed multi-day hikes through the mountains as part of his work. Now that he is older, he can no longer manage those treks. Even a couple of hours of steep walking leaves him sore.

Our conversation eventually turned to current politics. Olga was deeply concerned about mining projects, particularly those proposed near Cuenca. She worried that large-scale mining would contaminate water supplies and damage ecosystems that local communities depend upon. She mentioned a large demonstration planned for September 17 and expected many people to participate.

She also told me about her own childhood. Her family had moved to Mindo from Cotopaxi when she was eight years old. The transition was difficult. The heat, humidity, and mosquitoes were unlike anything she had known. Her mother disliked it and eventually returned to Quito, but Olga stayed with her siblings and gradually fell in love with life in Mindo. At the time there were only four houses. The forest surrounded everything. There was no electricity, and fireflies provided much of the nighttime light.

One thing she mentioned gave me pause. A three-day church festival was about to begin right next door. Firecrackers were already exploding while we talked. Combined with a review I had read mentioning poor soundproofing, I began to suspect I might not get much sleep.

As it turned out, my intuition was correct. A small dog barked through much of the night. A confused rooster began crowing around eleven o’clock. The following morning a Venezuelan neighbor spent a considerable amount of time yelling at the top of his lungs. He sounded equal parts angry and unstable. I felt sorry for his children.

September 12. Despite all the noise, I managed to sleep intermittently with my earplugs firmly wedged into my ears. The bed was extremely hard, but by this point I had become surprisingly accustomed to hard beds in Ecuador.

Although I genuinely liked Olga, I was relieved to be moving. I packed my belongings, made some eggs for breakfast, and asked whether she could help me get to my new accommodation, Cabañas de Armonía y Orquídeas. Her husband drove me there for $1.50. It was only a five-minute trip, but I was grateful not to have to carry all of my bags.

During the drive he talked about his years working with the environmental cooperative and how meaningful that work had been, despite the hardships. He lamented that there were now far fewer people actively protecting the forest. He also told me about Mindo Lindo and Pedro Peñafiel, one of the founders of the environmental movement in the region. Pedro is still alive, and I hope to meet him while I’m here.

We also confirmed plans for Monday. Olga and her husband invited me to visit the finca he manages. I’m looking forward to seeing it. Olga says toucans occasionally visit the property.

At the new lodge I met Benjamin, who introduced me to the orchid collection. We connected on Facebook and Instagram. He is a photographer and naturalist and has spent years exploring the surrounding forests. He told me he had seen the rare Andean bear and had spotted a sloth only once in two years. He also shared stories about many other animals he encounters regularly.

The orchid collection itself was remarkable. Benjamin explained that his family had been collecting orchids for over thirty years. All of the orchids came from Ecuador, although not all were native to the Mindo area. He showed me dozens of species, including several spectacular Dracula orchids. There were orchids of every imaginable shape and size. He even had several varieties of vanilla, including one native to Ecuador and another originating from Tahiti.

When it came time to choose a room, Benjamin gave me several options. I selected a lovely room on the top floor with a veranda and windows overlooking the gardens. After the previous night’s chaos, it felt like paradise.

I liked the place so much that I immediately extended my reservation to six nights. Mindo was already beginning to feel like somewhere I wanted to linger. After settling into my room and putting my things away, I discovered there was no power, so I couldn’t pay for the room yet. I decided to walk back to Olga’s place to pick up the groceries I had bought now that I was allowed to cook at the new place. As I walked, I reflected on something Olga had told me: when she moved here forty years ago, there were only four houses. Now there are hundreds, perhaps even over a thousand.

After picking up my groceries, I decided to treat myself to a cappuccino and headed to Sutié Lodge. While I was there, I noticed that the U.S. Open men’s final was on television. I ended up watching the last two sets and saw Carlos Alcaraz win. I hadn’t watched either player before, and the match was incredibly dramatic. It reminded me a bit of the great Federer-Nadal battles. It was the first tennis I’d watched in years, and it made me want to play again.

Around 1:30 I left and went to the restaurant Benjamin had recommended. The trout was good, although there wasn’t much of it. After lunch I returned to my room and organized a few things. On the way I saw Benjamin carrying his son on his shoulders. He mentioned that there would be a procession for the Virgin of El Cisne.

Curious, I walked to the church, but nobody was there. Someone told me the procession had gone up to the Y and would be walking back down. I started climbing the hill toward the Y. After about forty-five minutes, a couple from Quito offered me a ride for the remaining stretch. Just as I caught up with the procession, the skies opened.

The rain came down in sheets. Many people carried enormous leaves over their heads as makeshift umbrellas. It reminded me of Totoro. I joined the procession and walked with them through the downpour for about forty-five minutes. Within minutes I was completely soaked.

During the walk I met Jaramillo, a cacao farmer originally from Guayaquil. He had moved to Quito years ago and worked manufacturing plastic packaging for agricultural products. Eighteen years earlier he had purchased land about twenty kilometers toward the coast from Mindo. He said he had a feeling that life in Quito would become increasingly difficult as more people migrated from the countryside seeking work.

His father had owned a two-hundred-hectare property near Mindo, but after his father’s death the land passed elsewhere. Jaramillo spent a year searching for a smaller parcel because most available properties were fifty hectares or larger. Eventually he found thirteen hectares and began planting cacao.

He told me that if cacao trees are carefully managed, they can produce fruit in about a year. Otherwise it can take five years. While he still lived in Quito he hired workers to manage the farm, but he said they ended up taking much of the money, so he moved there permanently. He now lives mostly alone in a small house on the property.

One thing he told me surprised me. He said he often has to pollinate the cacao flowers by hand because there aren’t enough natural pollinators. It reminded me of stories from China where people pollinate fruit trees with feather dusters. That’s what happens when ecosystems become degraded.

He was fascinating to talk to, and I hoped we could exchange contact information. Unfortunately the rain was so intense that I didn’t want to expose my phone. Instead I told him where I was staying and said I would leave my name and number with the receptionist. I don’t think he ever received it, probably because no one was at the desk when he arrived.

Eventually I left the procession. The group was moving very slowly, and I was becoming increasingly worried about my phone and the bag I’d left on the terrace. Since everyone was walking at a leisurely pace, I passed most of the participants and ended up arriving back in town ahead of the procession itself.

Ironically, despite being the first person to return, nobody greeted me with trumpets. A soaked foreigner apparently doesn’t qualify for a ceremonial welcome.

Back at the hotel I peeled off my drenched clothes and called KeyPoint about the ATM withdrawals that still hadn’t been resolved. I sent my mother a message about the U.S. Open and then spent the rest of the afternoon waiting in my room, feeling a bit trapped by the weather.

I asked Benjamin if he could bring me two pillows and an umbrella. Nearly an hour later he arrived and also helped me switch the television language setting to English.

Eventually I put my wet shoes back on and headed downtown. I had considered making tuna toast in the kitchen, but it was locked, so I went straight into town instead.

I stopped at the restaurant Benjamin had recommended and found him there eating with his son and mother-in-law. I ordered tuna, but then a man lit a cigarette right outside the dining area. Not wanting to spend my meal breathing smoke, I canceled the order and left.

Instead I returned to La Sazón de Marcela, where I’d enjoyed trout a few nights earlier. The trout was tasty but remarkably thin. Even the trout here seem skinny. There wasn’t much meat on it, and I left the meal still hungry despite filling up on rice and French fries.

The service took nearly an hour because a group of about thirty people had arrived before me. When I finally finished, I gave some of the leftovers to a dog waiting nearby. Later I noticed another even skinnier dog hiding timidly in the shadows and wished I’d given the food to that one instead. Experiences in India have made me particularly sensitive to hungry street dogs.

By the time I returned to my room I was exhausted from the previous night’s poor sleep and went to bed around nine.

Unfortunately, Mindo had other plans.

The nearby indoor soccer stadium hosted a girls’ match, and enormous cheers erupted every fifteen minutes or so until almost midnight. Then the oompah music from downtown began. Even with earplugs and a pillow pressed over my head, the bass pounded relentlessly.

Around two in the morning the church started setting off fireworks that sounded more like grenades than fireworks. Then at six o’clock they began again, accompanied by a marching band determined to achieve maximum volume: trumpets, trombones, bass drums, and snare drums blasting through town.

Sleep was impossible.

September 13. I woke up completely exhausted. If I could have found a cemetery, I probably would have tried sleeping there. Though knowing Mindo, there would probably have been oompah music playing all night there too.

I had set my alarm for nine and immediately regretted it. When I went downstairs for breakfast, the staff were eating and told me I would need to wait ten minutes. The options appeared to be fried egg and yucca. That sounded fairly unappealing, so I asked what else was available. Fruit, they said.

The coffee was terrible, so I settled for chamomile tea, a soft-boiled egg, and a stale piece of bread.

I told Tonya how little sleep I’d gotten and explained that the noise had been relentless. She suggested moving me to another room downstairs. I pointed out that the windows weren’t actually windows—they were screens. Sound simply passed straight through them.

She looked puzzled until I brought her upstairs and showed her.

“Oh,” she said. “Now I understand.”

She suggested another room, but while I was considering it, guests arrived and occupied the room next door. I didn’t feel like sharing a wall with someone. Besides, I hoped that once morning activities ended things might quiet down enough for me to rest.

Instead there was a soccer game across the street, neighbors playing music, roosters crowing, and motorcycles constantly racing by.

I escaped to Cacao Lodge for a cappuccino and a brownie with ice cream. I spent an hour there talking with Shawn and reading a fascinating magazine. One article discussed glacier retreat in Ecuador. Another examined Borges’s final days in Geneva. It was peaceful, calm, and exactly what I needed.

Afterward I stopped by Olivia’s shop and bought an 85% chocolate bar. Then I wandered through the back streets looking for an ATM. I located the coffee shop that several people had recommended, the one famous for waffles, and made a mental note to return.

The ATM search was less successful. One machine only accepted Ecuadorian cards. Another accepted only national bank cards as well. Someone suggested I try Quetzal, a chocolate farm and tour operation up the hill, since they might know of alternatives.

As I walked toward Quetzal, I passed a sign for La Casa de Cecilia, a place I had previously considered booking. I had rejected it because I thought it might be too close to the church.

Following the path uphill, I arrived at a beautiful open-air dining area where two women were having lunch…

I asked one of the women if she could show me a room. She explained that they were technically full, but there was one room currently unoccupied, and she offered to show it to me. The moment I saw it, I liked it. I asked whether it might be available from that evening through the 17th.

At first she thought I meant the following night, but I corrected her. I really didn’t want to spend another night near the church fiesta. After checking, she confirmed that I could stay there. The room was smaller than the one I had at Cabañas de Armonía y Orquídeas, and it cost the same—$35 a night—but it sat beside a roaring river and felt wonderfully tranquil. Best of all, it was at the far end of the property with nobody above me. I suspected it would be much quieter.

Relieved, I returned to Cabañas. I told the mother-in-law that I wanted to speak with Tonya about a refund. Apparently she was at a soccer game, so they called her. I quickly packed my belongings and carried everything downstairs.

When Tonya arrived, she charged me for the night plus an additional ten percent of the total reservation. I’m still not entirely sure why. By the time it was settled, that single night had cost me about $56. It felt expensive, but at that point I didn’t care. A good night’s sleep was worth it.

I then paid another small fortune for a taxi. The driver charged me three dollars to travel about half a mile. It seemed ridiculous, but I didn’t feel like arguing.

Once I arrived at La Casa de Cecilia, I unpacked my things and opened the room to air it out. It smelled strongly of cleaning products, something like Ajax. I put my groceries in the refrigerator, made a banana smoothie, and chatted briefly with Alexandra, one of the women who worked there. After borrowing an umbrella, I headed back into town.

I decided to have an almuerzo at a restaurant on the main square that I’d been eyeing for several days. The meal included fish soup, a fried seafood fillet, French fries, salad, and rice. The soup was excellent, and the fish was good as well. I didn’t finish everything, but I enjoyed most of it.

While eating, I watched a man pull his car directly into a traffic lane and leave it there without flashers. His girlfriend got in, and the two of them sat talking for at least twenty minutes while everyone else had to drive around them. At first I ignored it, but eventually I politely asked whether he could move because traffic was backing up.

He snapped back that he knew exactly what he was doing.

His girlfriend immediately started glaring at me as if I had committed some terrible offense. The irony was that less than a minute later a large bus came through, forcing him to pull away anyway.

The incident bothered me more than it should have. It seemed to reflect a pattern I had been noticing: throw trash wherever you want, make as much noise as possible, do whatever benefits you personally and ignore everyone else. Loud motorcycles racing through town. People blasting music. Men staggering drunk through the streets by early evening. Engines revving constantly until the smell of gasoline hangs in the air.

To be clear, this certainly wasn’t true of everyone. But among many younger men especially, I sensed a culture of showing off through noise and disruption. It struck me as unfortunate because I doubted this was what Ecuador had always been like. My impression was that much of it was relatively recent, fueled by economic frustration, social change, and perhaps the influence of social media.

Later I spoke with a couple at the organic market in the plaza who largely agreed with my observations. They emphasized that it certainly wasn’t representative of all Ecuadorians, and I agreed. Still, they felt the shift among some younger people was real.

Not long afterward I met Shawna, an Australian woman who had lived in Ecuador for a year in 2015. During that time she met an Argentine man, had a child with him, and eventually decided to remain in Ecuador even after their relationship ended. She spent time in Quito before renting a cabin on a farm between Quito and Mindo.

She loved the area because of its climate and because it was ideal for cultivating mushrooms. She produces medicinal mushroom extracts, including lion’s mane, reishi, and turkey tail. I ended up buying a bottle of reishi extract from her.

Like several people I had spoken with, Shawna believed life for ordinary Ecuadorians had been significantly better a decade ago. When I asked what had changed, she said many people had been persuaded by negative portrayals of Correa and later transferred those fears onto Luisa González. According to her, wealthier Ecuadorians tended to support the current government because it favored their interests, while many poorer people felt trapped, uncertain that any alternative existed.

We also discussed healthcare. Shawna said medical services in many areas had deteriorated significantly. Near where she lived, a facility that had once operated as a functioning hospital had been reduced to a small health center occupying only the first floor. The upper floors sat unused.

I enjoyed talking with her. She was thoughtful and easy to speak with. When I admitted how stressed and exhausted I’d been feeling, she encouraged me to try the reishi extract. We exchanged WhatsApp numbers before parting.

As I continued walking, I noticed an event taking place at the library. Curious, I stopped to investigate. It turned out to be the first gathering of a project aimed at collecting stories about the natural environment for a future book.

The atmosphere was wonderful. Families sat together, children ran around, and people shared stories. One woman was carrying a huge jackfruit covered in thorn-like protrusions. Watching everyone interact, I found myself thinking about how important community projects like this are for preserving both culture and the environment.

Toward late afternoon I decided to walk toward the Tarabita and the waterfall trails beyond. I continued all the way to the cable tram crossing the valley. By the time I neared the trailhead, darkness was beginning to fall.

Along the way I met a German couple descending with a guide. They advised me to be careful. I assured them I would be and continued until the fading light finally convinced me to turn around.

On the return walk I was delighted to see several fireflies flickering among the vegetation. I also heard frogs and birds calling in the darkness. Someone had told me that this wasn’t actually peak firefly season. Apparently in a few months the area would be full of them. Even so, seeing a few was magical.

Back in town I initially planned to have dessert but instead found myself eating another inexpensive dinner at La Sazón. For $3.50 I received soup and chicken, more than enough food. Once again I gave my leftovers to a patient dog waiting nearby.

It started raining while I ate. I sat listening to the drops striking the roof and felt unexpectedly content. Every so often someone would pass and wish me buen provecho.

I had begun reading The Ornament of the World, a fascinating book about Muslim Spain and the remarkable coexistence of Muslims, Christians, and Jews in medieval Al-Andalus. It felt like a powerful reminder of what diversity can create when people choose cooperation over division.

Eventually I returned to La Casa de Cecilia, wondering whether the church festival music would reach this side of town. To my immense relief, it didn’t. The only sounds were frogs, insects, and the rushing river. For the first time in days, I felt hopeful about getting a good night’s sleep.

September 14. I woke after a much better night, although one thing immediately became apparent: the constant dripping on the plastic roof was surprisingly loud. It wasn’t enough to ruin my sleep, but it was annoying. I asked the staff if it might be possible to move rooms, and they said they would let me know later in the day if anything became available. I wasn’t sure why they couldn’t decide immediately, but I left it in their hands.

After organizing my things, I walked the small forest loop on the property and spent some time watching hummingbirds. The morning was quiet, relaxed, and exactly what I had been craving after the chaos near the church. I crossed the river to explore and learned about a place called Casa Piedra, which another guest highly recommended. It looked beautiful, though more expensive than I wanted to pay. The guest was traveling with a family of six, which made the rates much more reasonable for them.

Back at La Casa de Cecilia, I met Paz, an Argentine woman from Buenos Aires who was traveling around Ecuador and thoroughly enjoying the country. She strongly recommended southern Ecuador. My mosquito bites had become increasingly irritating, so I asked her about aloe. I covered my legs with it and was relieved by how quickly it soothed the itching.

Later I met Chris Bell, a professional birder who lives in Colombia and works with bird-tour companies. He had spotted birds through his binoculars, so I asked what he had seen, and we ended up talking for nearly forty-five minutes. Chris told me about a backpacking trip through South America during which he recorded two thousand new bird species in a single year. He laughed as he described how addictive birding can become. He would check eBird, discover where a rare species had been seen, and then travel six hours just for the chance to find it.

Our conversation wandered into many subjects. We talked about the United States and its relationship with guns, environmental issues throughout South America, and the difficulty of dealing with garbage in developing countries. Chris observed that people often dump trash outside towns because they don’t want it near their homes, only for the wind and rain to scatter it back into the environment. We also discussed drug trafficking. I commented that if wealthy countries dramatically reduced cocaine consumption, it would have a huge impact on organized crime. He agreed.

One observation of his struck me in particular. He said that the arrival of the internet in isolated communities has sometimes had unintended consequences. Young Indigenous people who once compared themselves only to their neighbors are suddenly exposed to lifestyles and wealth they can never realistically attain. According to him, this has contributed to growing despair and even increased suicide rates in some communities. He also felt that globalized consumer culture drives much of the obsession with motorcycles, ATVs, and status symbols. Like me, he disliked the explosion of ATVs around Mindo and noted that they had not been nearly as common on previous visits.

I found Chris thoughtful and refreshingly nuanced. When I mentioned some of my own frustrations and prejudices, he simply said that everyone has prejudices; the important thing is recognizing them. I appreciated that perspective.

Following his recommendation, I headed to Punto Ornitológico. It was a relatively small property with a terrace where visitors could feed hummingbirds from tiny cups of sugar water. I spent half an hour there, delighted every time a hummingbird landed on my hand. Their feet felt impossibly delicate, and I loved the brief sensation of being connected to such tiny creatures.

I explored the trails leading down to the river, visited a small observation deck, and repeatedly looked for a toucan I could hear calling nearby. Although I never managed to see it, the property itself was lovely. There was even a small tilapia pond that attracted herons and other birds. By the time I left, I felt that simply holding hummingbird feeders had made the visit worthwhile.

When I returned to La Casa de Cecilia, confusion reigned regarding the room situation. At first they told me I could move upstairs. Then they changed their minds because someone had reserved the room for the following day. I suggested moving for one night and then relocating again if necessary. The whole process felt like a bit of a clusterfuck, but eventually I decided not to worry about it and continued with my day.

I stopped at Mindo Chocolate Experience for a brownie and then, around three o’clock, began walking toward the Tarabita and the waterfall trails. I wasn’t sure how much time I would have before everything closed. Along the way I met a couple who had just arrived from a guided birding excursion. They had seen twelve species in only three hours, which sounded impressive.

The walk uphill was hot and dusty. Eventually I hitched a ride with a friendly man who had owned a finca in the area for forty years. He grows yucca and green bananas primarily for his own consumption. He kindly drove me all the way to the Tarabita.

Crossing the ravine in the cable car was exciting, especially with the dramatic views into the valley below. Once across, I headed toward the Ondinas waterfalls. The hike was steeper and more demanding than I had expected, but I enjoyed having the trail mostly to myself. I was the last visitor to enter that afternoon.

I made it as far as Cascada Maderas. The waterfall was beautiful and peaceful, and I sat for a while listening to the water and enjoying the solitude. The hike left me drenched in sweat, but in a satisfying way. Eventually I returned to the cable car just before closing time and crossed back over the ravine.

The walk downhill afterward turned into one of the highlights of the day. As I descended, I suddenly heard the unmistakable calls of toucans. I stopped immediately and scanned the trees. To my delight, I eventually spotted a pair of them moving through the canopy. I watched them fly from tree to tree, taking photos and videos whenever I could. The glare made viewing difficult, but it didn’t matter. I had finally found them.

I stayed as long as possible. Mosquitoes were feasting on me, forcing me to put on long pants, but I didn’t care. Eventually the male flew off while the female lingered among the lower branches. Feeling deeply content, I continued down the road.

I explored a riverside road near Casa Divina and Dana until private homes blocked further progress. As dusk settled in, I noticed a few fireflies blinking among the vegetation. There weren’t many, but seeing them brought back memories of conversations I’d had elsewhere about the firefly season.

Back in town, I passed by Casa Armonía and ran into members of the family. I thanked them for their hospitality and explained that although their property was lovely, the noise situation had forced me to move. I also greeted Benjamin and told him about seeing the toucan pair. He seemed pleased and mentioned that the local race would be taking place the following weekend.

Dinner was at La Sazón de Marcela, where I ordered tilapia. Afterward I stopped by Olivia’s chocolate shop. Olivia invited me to taste fresh cacao pulp straight from the fruit before I bought a lemon carlotta, which was delicious.

We ended up talking for quite a while. Olivia had taught elementary school for thirty-eight years and spoke warmly about the past. She felt that children had been better educated years ago. She also believed that educational reforms during Correa’s administration had made life much harder for teachers through increased testing and bureaucracy. Health issues, including a cerebral aneurysm and diabetes, had eventually forced her to retire at sixty.

Our conversation drifted to the subject of ATVs. Olivia and her son-in-law both felt they had become a serious problem. According to them, most had arrived only within the last couple of years. In Baños they are regulated and required to have silencers, but in Mindo they are much louder. The noise interferes with birdwatching and undermines one of the town’s greatest attractions.

We agreed that it was a strange contradiction for a destination internationally known for birds. Her son-in-law deliberately bought a motorcycle with one of the quietest engines available because he disliked unnecessary noise. Before I left, Olivia showed me a crocheted capybara she had made and suggested several locations where I might have better luck finding birds, including areas beyond Punto Ornitológico and above the Tarabita.

It had been a full day—birds, waterfalls, conversations, hummingbirds landing on my hand, and finally the long-awaited sighting of toucans. As I walked back through the quiet evening toward my room, I felt grateful that I had moved away from the church festival. For the first time in several days, Mindo felt peaceful.

September 15. I woke around 7:50 and moved all of my things into the downstairs room. The staff had finally decided I could stay there, although it took them nearly an hour to tell me. After breakfast around 8:45, I chatted with Vitaly, a Ukrainian man who has been coming to Mindo for several years and is hoping to buy land here. He is relocating from Colorado and spoke enthusiastically about the climate and the slower pace of life.

We talked about the ATV problem, and I suggested he speak with the municipality about regulating them the way they do in Baños, where operators need permits and silencers. Later I learned that many former bird-tour operators had switched to ATV tours because they are more profitable. There are now around 120 ATVs in town. Originally they were brought in by outsiders, but locals are increasingly buying them as well. It reminded me a little of Ecuador’s current political situation—something arrives from outside, becomes established, and then takes on a life of its own. I also found myself wondering how long Mindo’s famously pleasant climate will remain the same as temperatures continue to rise.

It was my mother’s birthday. Around nine o’clock her time, I called and left a message when she didn’t answer. I sang Happy Birthday and wished her a wonderful day.

Afterward I walked toward the Yellow House but only as far as the entrance. I plan to return and hike farther into the forest above it. Apparently there is a troop of spider monkeys living higher up on the property. From there I continued past Punto Ornitológico and checked out a new viewing platform under construction. I hoped to see birds but had no luck. The day was already growing quite hot.

I returned to town and finally tried the coffee shop that several people had recommended. The cappuccino was excellent, while the omelet was less impressive. As I sat there, I noticed a man carrying an unusual piece of photographic equipment and asked him about it. His name was Samuel. He lives in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, though he is originally from Martha’s Vineyard. The device was designed to help protect camera flashes and improve wildlife photography.

Our conversation quickly turned to birds. Samuel asked if I wanted to share a taxi to Las Cotingas, a bird reserve on the road toward Quito. I hesitated because of the cost, but eventually agreed. We found a taxi driver willing to take us there and wait a few hours for $25 round-trip, which seemed much more reasonable when split between two people.

The driver, originally from Mitad del Mundo near Quito, pointed out a pavo del monte on the way out of Mindo. About twenty minutes later we arrived at Las Cotingas, where a young woman greeted us. The reserve had numerous hummingbird feeders, and like at Punto Ornitológico, visitors could hold small cups of sugar water and allow the birds to feed from their hands.

For the next hour I watched hummingbirds dart in every direction. One of the highlights was feeling their tiny feet settle on my fingers. We also saw a weasel-like animal eating bananas, a small capybara-like rodent, and several colorful tanagers. Samuel spent much of the time photographing them with his impressive camera equipment while I focused on watching and filming.

Eventually I decided to explore the trails. Valery, the daughter of the owner, offered to accompany me. She explained that when her family arrived twenty-five years ago, wildlife was much more abundant. At that time people were often afraid of wild animals. Now, ironically, sightings have become rare.

The land had originally been cattle pasture. Her father raised cows there, and she helped care for them. About seven years ago he began planting native trees, especially fruiting palms that attract birds. His goal was to transform the pasture into functioning habitat. Two years ago they opened the property to birdwatchers.

We walked slowly through the misty forest, stopping frequently to examine plants and listen for birds. I thought I heard a quetzal at one point, but we were unable to locate it. I was delighted to see club mosses and other forest plants. Valery shared traditional uses for various species, knowledge she had learned from her grandparents. One of the most interesting was Sangre de Drago, a medicinal tree used locally for many ailments, including, according to some people, COVID.

By the time we returned, Samuel was beginning to get restless. Valery had expected the walk to take fifteen minutes; instead it lasted considerably longer. While we were gone, he had seen a toucan, which I unfortunately missed. We searched a bit longer but eventually left because we had promised the taxi driver we’d return after three hours.

Back in Mindo around four o’clock, I was glad I had accepted Samuel’s invitation. Not only did I enjoy the reserve, but splitting the taxi fare made the excursion affordable. He recommended hiking the trails above the Yellow House and also suggested visiting Nambillo Padua higher in the mountains.

I also learned something disturbing: the four butterfly houses in town reportedly capture many of the local butterflies. If true, it would explain why there are so few butterflies in the streets and gardens. It struck me as a troubling contradiction. Butterflies are important pollinators, and removing them from the surrounding ecosystem seems counterproductive.

After returning to town, I met Olga and her husband for a visit to the finca he manages. I was excited about finally seeing it. I quickly used the bathroom, grabbed a piece of bread, and climbed into their vehicle.

We drove roughly half an hour beyond the outskirts of Mindo. The property had originally belonged to an Indigenous man whose children later moved to the United States. Ownership is now complicated because there are no clear documents dividing the inheritance among the heirs.

Olga’s husband serves as caretaker. He and Olga also own ten cattle that graze on the property. He buys calves from dairy farmers, raises them, and later sells them. We climbed a steep slope in search of birds and were fortunate enough to find a pair of toucans. Beyond that, bird activity was limited. He told me that in a few months a certain tree produces nuts that attract enormous numbers of birds, and during that season he can sometimes observe fifteen species from a single location.

One of the highlights for me was seeing a brilliant blue morpho butterfly near the owner’s house. Its shimmering wings seemed almost unreal. Olga showed me several fruit trees she had planted and explained that she and her husband hope to move there permanently one day. They have already done considerable work on a smaller house below the main residence. I sincerely hope their dream becomes reality.

As we walked, they told me more about the environmental protection program that once operated in the region. Every month volunteers came to help grow seedlings and restore forested areas that had been cleared for cattle. There were eight full-time forest guardians, including Olga’s husband. They patrolled the area by motorcycle and monitored regions where illegal hunting and logging remained common.

He explained that many caretakers came from the coast and maintained traditions of hunting deer, guinea pigs, and other wildlife. Conservation work was often difficult and sometimes dangerous. Eventually the government approved a pipeline through protected areas, and environmental oversight weakened. The Ministry of Environment was merged with agencies responsible for energy and resource extraction. In his view, that change left the forests far more vulnerable. He worries that mining concessions could someday expand into these areas as well.

He also spoke nostalgically about the abundance of butterflies in the past. Their decline, he believes, mirrors broader environmental changes occurring throughout the region.

The conversation eventually shifted from conservation to local legends. He told stories about a man who became obsessed with magic books and claimed the devil demanded souls from him. Whenever he drank heavily, he said, the devil would strike him over the head. I couldn’t help thinking that alcohol alone might explain that sensation.

There were stories about duendes—small supernatural beings somewhat similar to Irish fairies or leprechauns. One man reportedly heard them singing and playing guitar all night long. Olga’s husband insisted that many of these stories contained at least a grain of truth. I told him about my Irish grandparents and their own belief in the Little People.

Naturally, the discussion turned to snakes. He told me he had killed six or seven venomous snakes on the finca, including coral snakes and fer-de-lance. A friend of his had once stepped on one and been bitten. They managed to locate antivenom intended for cattle, which kept him alive long enough to reach a hospital. Fortunately, he said most of the snakes now seem concentrated higher in the forest rather than in the cattle pastures.

Even so, he walked ahead of us with a machete, cutting through grass and undergrowth as a precaution. I was grateful for that. Earlier, when Olga had led me through tall grass near the palm trees, I had quietly worried about exactly that possibility.

Before we left, he strongly recommended that I visit Mindo Lindo, where Pedro Peñafiel—one of the founders of the local conservation movement—still lives and works. I made a mental note to go.

Back in town, I thanked Olga and her husband and headed to La Sazón de Marcela for dinner. I was ravenous after the day’s activities. Later I stopped by Olivia’s chocolate shop hoping to say hello, but she was busy serving customers. Instead I continued to Mindo Moka, where I enjoyed a piece of chocolate cake and a truffle.

That evening at La Casa de Cecilia, I met a woman from Los Angeles who now splits her time between Vermont and Ecuador. She first came to Quito about fifteen years ago while caring for a professor’s house and gradually built a life here. We talked for quite a while about birds. She showed me hundreds of photographs from tours she has taken over the years and explained that September can be a good month for birding because many species begin returning from nesting areas deeper in the forest.

She seemed well known at the lodge. While we were talking, Xavier came by to greet her. His son Antonio had recently returned from Quito, where he attends university and is completing an internship. It was obvious she had developed close relationships with many of the people there.

Back in my room, I made an unpleasant discovery: I had lost both my shorts and one of my earbuds. I immediately began sending messages. Fortunately, Olga found the shorts in her vehicle. The earbud was another matter entirely.

I went to Mindo Forest Café to check whether it had been left there and gave them my WhatsApp number in case it turned up. After that I returned to the lodge, applied aloe to my legs, and got ready for bed. Despite the constant dripping on the roof, I slept surprisingly well.

September 16. I woke at eight feeling well rested and immediately noticed what a difference a good night’s sleep makes. After a quick walk around the forest loop, I decided to head down toward the Yellow House. As I reached the base of the hill, I ran into Gonzalo and asked whether he had heard anything about my missing earbud. At that exact moment, I saw a message from Valery at Las Cotingas. She had found it. What a relief.

Gonzalo and I headed up toward San Tadeo, where he showed me their birdwatching area. The gardens were beautiful, and the view overlooking Mindo was spectacular. I briefly considered staying there, but the room rates were higher than I wanted to pay. Instead, I decided to spend six dollars on the birdwatching access and leave it at that.

I felt slightly guilty because Gonzalo’s mother seemed completely prepared for my arrival even though I had called only a few minutes earlier. It was clear they had rushed around getting things ready, and I appreciated the effort.

Afterward I headed back down the hill and spent some time talking with Gonzalo. He wanted to show me several other places in the area. During the conversation I remembered that I had been meaning to visit Mindo Lindo, which is also located near the Y. José had spoken highly of it and particularly of Pedro Peñafiel, one of the founders of the conservation movement in Mindo.

Pedro and his wife, Heike Brieschke, live there permanently with their daughters. Pedro is a carpenter and woodworker who has spent more than thirty years involved in conservation work and was instrumental in the declaration of the Mindo-Nambillo Protected Forest. Heike, a biologist and ornithologist, has spent years conducting bird studies and leading tours throughout Ecuador. Since 2016 she has also served on the board of the Mindo Cloud Forest Foundation. After hearing so much about Pedro from José, I was hoping to meet him in person.

Unfortunately, in my excitement about retrieving the earbud, I completely forgot to arrange transportation back toward Las Cotingas to pick it up. I made a note to see if I could catch a ride with someone later in the week. I was becoming increasingly tired of spending money on taxis every time I wanted to go somewhere.

When I returned to town, I walked back up toward the Yellow House and asked about the entrance fee. At six dollars per person, it wasn’t unreasonable, but by then it was already late enough in the day that I decided it wasn’t worth it.

As I walked nearby, I heard toucans calling from trees close to El Quetzal. I immediately headed uphill, hoping to spot them. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of stopping when some workers invited me onto a veranda to look from there. I should have continued climbing. By the time I resumed the search, the birds had disappeared. The workers told me they had probably crossed to the other side of the river to rest.

One thing I’ve learned in Mindo is that everyone has a theory about where the birds are. Sometimes those theories are right, and sometimes they’re not. There is also a strong financial incentive behind many of the suggestions. Gonzalo mentioned that he could guide me to birds for much less than some of the other operators charging sixty dollars or more. I had heard of places offering tours for twenty. Birding can become expensive very quickly.

Walking back toward town, I noticed Toucanet Coffee and a sign advertising waffles. At that moment I also discovered that diarrhea had decided to make an unwelcome appearance, so I urgently needed a bathroom. The café solved both problems.

I ordered a waffle topped with fruit and a cappuccino, and both were excellent. The waffle was easily one of the better breakfasts or lunches I had eaten in Mindo, and the coffee was equally good. I was genuinely happy that I had stopped.

Feeling much better afterward, I wandered through town for a while. The pace of life seemed slower than it had during the church festival, and I found myself appreciating the quieter atmosphere. Without the constant fireworks and brass bands, I could actually hear birds calling from the trees around town.

I spent part of the afternoon thinking about all the people I had met during my time in Mindo. What struck me most was how many of the conversations eventually circled back to similar themes: the environment, the economy, political change, and the feeling that life had become more difficult than it once was. Whether I was speaking with Olga, José, Olivia, Shawna, or others, there was a recurring sense that something valuable had been lost over the past decade.

At the same time, there was also an incredible amount of dedication among the people working to protect the cloud forest. Again and again I heard stories of volunteers planting trees, guides educating visitors, and local residents trying to preserve habitats despite financial pressures. It reminded me that conservation is often sustained not by governments but by individuals who care deeply about a place.

As evening approached, I continued exploring town at a relaxed pace. I stopped occasionally to watch birds, check out small shops, and enjoy the cooler temperatures that arrived after sunset. The mountains surrounding Mindo were wrapped in mist, giving the whole valley a dreamlike quality.

One of the things I love about traveling is that days often unfold in unexpected ways. What had started as a simple mission to recover a lost earbud had turned into another day of conversations, birdwatching, and learning more about the people who call this place home.

That night I returned to La Casa de Cecilia feeling content. For the first time in several days, I wasn’t exhausted, stressed, or frustrated by noise. The sound of the river drifted through the darkness, and I went to sleep grateful for the quiet.

After eating, I headed back to Casa Cecilia. On the way, I saw Cecilia, Paula’s mother, sitting in the lovely old wooden house. We talked for a while, and she invited me for tea later that afternoon. I told her about visiting Olga and José and their finca beyond La Cinta, and about what I was learning regarding the history of conservation in Mindo.

From there, I went to Connect Café, where I ordered a delicious waffle topped with fruit and a cappuccino. Afterwards I bought a banana muffin and tucked it away for my hike. It felt luxurious to sit there for a while and simply relax.

Back at my room, I gathered my things and went to the patio to fill my water bottles and make some watermelon water. While I was there, I met Felipe, Paula’s brother and Pedro Peñafiel’s stepson. He was repairing part of the roof, and I told him about the incessant leak that had been driving me crazy. I showed him where it was dripping, and he immediately thanked me and said he would take a look.

I appreciated that. He seemed like a genuinely kind person—far kinder than the staff at the hotel, who had mostly brushed off my complaints.

Felipe told me about Casa del Río del Mindo, the guesthouse he and his wife own. It was considerably less expensive than where I was staying, looked much nicer, and was supposedly very quiet. They often saw motmots and other unusual birds there. He also recommended his uncle’s place, Birdwatcher’s House Lodge.

As we talked, he explained that Pedro had once lived there with them and that the main house at Casa Cecilia had been a gathering place for many of the young people who later became involved in conservation work in Mindo, including Pedro, his mother, and several others.

He said that when he was growing up in the 1980s there were far fewer trees and much less vegetation, yet there was significantly more water in the rivers and many more butterflies. Mindo had changed dramatically. At that time, government policy required landowners to clear roughly half their land in order to maintain legal ownership. The region was dominated by logging and cattle ranching.

I told him that I was thinking about returning to Mindo in early October, after visiting other parts of Ecuador. The longer I stayed, the more I realized I was only beginning to discover the best places and people here.

Later I managed to get through to my mom. A miracle.

She was just heading to choir rehearsal and was excited because she had celebrated her birthday with Celeste and Will the day before. They had read some of her writing and were impressed. She told me she had shared one of her humorous travel stories—something about a travel plug—and was surprised they liked it so much.

I told her she was a good writer.

She didn’t entirely believe me.

We talked about acceptance and how important it is. She said she was trying to accept herself more fully, and I admitted that I was working on the same thing. It was a good conversation. She told me she appreciated me and was looking forward to my coming home.

When I mentioned that I had been interviewing people throughout my trip, she laughed and said, “That’s the journalist in you.”

Her comment reminded me of Eugenia, who once told me I had a gift for getting people to open up and tell me their life stories. Looking back, I suppose I had done exactly that with her.

After our call, I made watermelon water and shared some with Felipe. I thanked him again for taking the time to talk with me and told him I would try to figure out a way to stay at his place before leaving Mindo.

I headed into town.

Passing through the main square, I saw Wamboo and remembered the excellent lunch I’d had there a few days earlier: shrimp, chicken soup, and all for three dollars. I sat down, spent an hour writing in my blog, and read part of a post by Bill McKibben about energy.

As I sat there, it suddenly occurred to me that the best time to stay at Felipe’s place would be now, while I was still in Mindo. I contacted both the property and Booking.com and asked whether I could postpone my departure by two days. I apologized for the short notice and explained that I had just learned about another birding area and still hoped to see motmots and toucans.

On my way out, I stopped to say hello to Elena, whom I had initially mistaken for Cecilia because she also lived in the old wooden house. I told her about José and Olga and their invitation to visit their finca beyond La Cinta. She invited me to stop by later for coffee whenever I returned.

After lunch I waited a long time for the rain to stop. It was pouring.

I watched a few minutes of soccer and eventually started walking toward the Tarabita road. Along the way I met a young woman and her mother hurrying through the rain. Feeling sorry for them, I offered my umbrella.

When we reached their house, I asked whether they had time to talk, and they immediately invited me inside.

The daughter was Ruth. I met her mother and later her father, who had just brought home an incubator. They were learning how to program it because they planned to raise chicks both for eggs and for meat. They emphasized that their chickens were healthier than commercially raised birds and were raised without hormones or antibiotics.

We talked about Belgium, where Ruth had lived for twenty-five years, and about her plans to buy an Airbnb near Andalucía. She invited me to visit. She also mentioned that they would be visiting her mother’s place in the mountains on Thursday and invited me to join them.

After the rain eased, I accompanied them to look at the incubator. Eventually they left by truck for Los Panchos, and I continued walking toward Mindo Garden.

It was my first time walking that road, and I really enjoyed it.

Along the way I met an Argentinian woman named Dana and her boyfriend. They were traveling with a rooftop tent and camping as they worked their way through South America. We talked for quite a while, and I immediately liked them. As we parted, I found myself wishing we had talked longer.

When I finally arrived at Mindo Garden, I discovered it was closed.

While I stood there wondering what to do, a car pulled up. The occupants asked if I knew anything about the waterfalls and entrance fees. I asked a nearby worker, who told us it was five dollars per person.

The woman had grown up in Mindo but now lived elsewhere in Ecuador. Her husband was Dutch, and her mother was traveling with them. They were shocked by how expensive tourism had become.

One place, they said, wanted $145 for the three of them. In Quito they had recently rented a house that accommodated six people for only $30.

Traveling in a group certainly has its advantages.

They offered me a ride back into town, which I gratefully accepted.

On the way, the woman pointed out the river and said that when she was young it had been clean and clear. Now it was muddy and polluted. She seemed genuinely saddened by the changes and described modern Mindo as much uglier than the town she remembered.

After they dropped me off, I walked past the entrance to another ecolodge I had been curious about and was happy to finally see where it was located. The setting was beautiful.

That evening I had dinner at La Saison de Marcel and then stopped by Olivia’s chocolate shop, where Rosaria, her son, and her son-in-law were making chocolate.

They offered me a michelada made with lemon, beer, salt, and fresh cacao juice. It was unusual but surprisingly good.

We talked for a while. When I mentioned the local woman who had been shocked by tourism prices, Rosaria shrugged and said that people needed to make a living and that it was reasonable to charge visitors for access to hiking trails.

I disagreed. Personally, I believe nature should be freely accessible. But since tourism was helping support her family, I decided not to argue.

Later I stopped at Elena’s house. We drank tea and talked for quite a while. Since I had decided to remain in Mindo two extra days, she invited me to accompany her to Quito on Friday. With transportation uncertain because of strikes and demonstrations, I was delighted by the offer.

Before I left, she invited me to breakfast the next morning to watch birds from her garden.

I returned to Casa Cecilia around 9:30 and prepared for bed.

Another expensive night of torture.

Bruno barked almost nonstop outside my room, and the relentless dripping from the roof continued throughout the rainstorm. Everything felt damp. My clothes were wet. The room was wet. I desperately wanted a shower, but the tiny bathroom made even that unappealing. Eventually I heard back from Booking.com. Changing my reservation was going to cost a small fortune.

September 18. Dana and her partner had invited me to meet them early in the morning to look for toucans and other birds across the bridge on the way to the Tarabita. A guide had told them there were lots of birds in that area. I said I would do my best to join them, depending on how much sleep I got. Ruth had also invited me to visit her parents’ place near the cabins around 10:30.

Despite the poor night’s sleep, I woke up early, around 7:30.

I joined Dana and her partner for French press coffee and bread, and we sat chatting for a while. It was lovely spending time with them. We even spotted a motmot, one of the birds I had hoped to see at Elena’s place. It was hiding deep in the trees, and I only caught a brief glimpse, but it was enough.

After thanking them, I went into town to buy oatmeal and bread. Then I stopped for a cappuccino before heading up the hill.

By then it was around nine o’clock. Along the way I met Sam, a birder who worked for the World Wildlife Fund and lived at least part of the year in North Carolina. He was quite a character, wearing a long poncho and slowly scanning the forest through his binoculars. We talked for ten or fifteen minutes before I continued on. He was moving at a snail’s pace in hopes of seeing as many birds as possible.

A little farther up the road I ran into Ruth and her mother, who were taking a taxi up the mountain. The driver turned out to be Gonzalo, the same man who had driven me to Alaspungo. “I thought you’d be gone already,” he said. “I’m staying one more day,” I replied. He stopped the car, and I climbed in.

We drove to Ruth’s mother’s place, where her father and uncle were already hard at work building a new house. Ruth told me they had only been working on it for four months, which was astonishing considering how much they had accomplished.

We sat talking for quite a while about her plans to move to Spain, cattle grazing, the impacts of ranching on cloud forests, and her desire to provide a comfortable home for her parents so they wouldn’t have to continue living in a deteriorating shack. It was interesting hearing her perspective, even when we disagreed.

I stayed for about an hour and a half. Her uncle cut fresh sugarcane for us to chew, and I was surprised by how much the flavor reminded me of vanilla. Eventually I decided I needed to continue up the mountain. Good thing I did. Within an hour the rain arrived.

As I was walking, Rosaria’s husband—the retired schoolteacher I had met at Olivia’s chocolate shop—pulled over and offered me a ride. “I like helping tourists,” he said. “Then they’ll want to come back.” I thought that was very sweet. He asked whether I planned to visit Beata, and when I said yes, he mentioned they were continuing on to Los Montañas, a place Gonzalo had also recommended. His son worked there. “Perfect,” I said. “I’d love to go.”

On the way we spotted a toucan and stopped so I could photograph it. Another woman from Quito was riding with us as well. At Los Montañas we got out and walked down to a hummingbird feeding station. After watching the birds for a few minutes, everyone headed down the trail. I quickly decided I preferred walking alone. About fifteen minutes later the rain began.

I crossed a hanging bridge and explored one of the trails as far as I felt like going before turning around. The forest was beautiful in the rain—misty, quiet, and almost otherworldly.

When I returned, the others had already crossed the river on the tarabita. The operator charged me five dollars, and I crossed as well. Afterwards I walked another couple of kilometers to the next tarabita crossing and continued exploring.

By then I was starving. I decided I wanted some chicken and promised myself only a short ten-minute walk beforehand. Naturally, that turned into something much longer.

I ended up hiking all the way down to the river to see a waterfall before returning to eat. The man at the food stand offered to reheat the chicken and french fries together in a frying pan. Unfortunately the oil was old enough that I could smell it before I even reached the stand.

The food tasted exactly as bad as I feared. I ate what I could, gave the rest to a hopeful dog, and then set off toward Reina Trail, another waterfall hike. There I ran into Sam again. “It’s worth it,” he assured me. So off I went.

The rain was getting heavier by the minute. Soon there were enormous puddles in the trail. I continued for another forty minutes or so until waterfalls were literally cascading down the path itself. In places I was no longer hiking through puddles—I was hiking through streams.

By the time I turned around, I was soaked completely through. Every layer. Every pocket. Every piece of clothing. I finally reached the tarabita and announced to myself that I was done. The operator waved me aboard, and a few other people joined at the last minute. We crossed the river, and he even returned my five-dollar change. From there I started walking back toward town.

After a few minutes I realized I was so thoroughly drenched that hitchhiking suddenly seemed like an excellent idea. The first car passed. The second car passed. The third vehicle—a pickup truck—stopped. Thank God. The driver dropped me in town, and I hurried back to Casa del Río del Mindo.

When Valentina saw me, she immediately understood the situation. I stripped off my soaked clothes and asked whether there was any way to dry my shoes. She told me they had a drying machine of some sort and offered to help. It felt miraculous.

Soon I was sitting comfortably in dry clothes with a cup of tea and a slice of orange cake. I made myself a tuna sandwich, managed to spill tuna oil on my rain jacket, and spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing. I wrote to Katka, posted a glowing review of the guesthouse, and caught up on my blog. As evening approached, I decided to stop by Olivia’s chocolate shop. I had promised Rosaria’s husband that I would say hello.

Rosaria was still there. She told me a strike was scheduled to begin at midnight. Nobody knew whether roads would be blocked or buses would be running the next day. She was also deeply upset about her son.

Only four months earlier he had started the chocolate business, Olivia’s, named after his daughter. Two weeks ago his wife had left him, taking both their daughter and the chocolate-making equipment. No one knew whether she planned to return. It was heartbreaking.

I offered to walk Rosaria home, but the rain started again. Since all my clothes were still damp, I was wearing my down jacket despite the humidity. Instead, I said goodbye and hurried back.

I returned to my room around 8:30 and decided to go to bed early. With the strike looming, I was worried about whether I would be able to leave Mindo the following day.

September 19. I woke up early and spread all my damp clothes outside to dry in the weak morning sun. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. I stayed in bed until about 8:00, then got up and chatted with Valentina. She told me she had enjoyed reading the review I had written. She also returned my clothes and shoes, which had dried overnight thanks to their machine. Luckily, she remembered my blanket, which I almost left behind.

I carried everything outside again and draped it across the wooden railings to catch as much sunlight as possible. Then I headed into town for a cappuccino and, of course, another waffle.

While I was there, I ended up talking with a rather cranky American. We got onto the subject of the ATVs that roar through Mindo, and I suggested that someone should speak with the municipality about the damage they were causing to the town’s atmosphere and wildlife.

“No,” he said. “People would get mad.”

I replied that eventually they would lose the birds that bring so many visitors to Mindo.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m lazy.”

That seemed to sum up his position on the matter. Rather than pursue the conversation, I changed the subject and asked about a story he had mentioned earlier involving a stolen host. He laughed and said it involved a married woman. I decided not to ask for details. I found myself feeling sorry for his wife, assuming he still had one.

A friendly couple from Guelph, Canada, joined the conversation. They were looking for a newly discovered frog species that had recently been found in the mountains. I didn’t know much about it, but I suggested a few places they might explore. They told me they were making a film and gave me the name of their website, Tree Dragon. They had just returned from the Galápagos and were especially enthusiastic about the whales they had seen there.

Afterward I hurried back to Casa del Río del Mindo to move my belongings into stronger sunlight. The sun had finally climbed high enough to be useful, and I spread everything across the wooden planks outside. At 10:50, Elena arrived—ten minutes early.

I rushed to finish packing and said goodbye to Valentina.

Before leaving, I found myself reflecting on how much I had loved staying there.

I was already fantasizing about returning to Mindo for a longer stay. I can’t say enough good things about Casa del Río del Mindo. During my time in town I stayed in three other places, all of which were significantly more expensive and far shabbier by comparison.

The property is peaceful and remarkably quiet, something that is surprisingly rare in Mindo. Felipe is a master carpenter, and it shows. Every room is beautifully crafted with extraordinary attention to detail. The gardens are lush and feel like a private forest. Valentina is warm, welcoming, and genuinely helpful.

Each room overlooks the river, whose gentle sound is virtually the only thing you hear. There is just one suite per floor, and the buildings are limited to two stories. The rooms have soaring cathedral ceilings, and the upper-floor suites include loft spaces.

The couple clearly love birds and conservation. They happily pointed out local species and helped guests learn about the wildlife around them. During my short stay I saw a motmot, a green tanager, and several other beautiful birds.

They were exceptionally kind. When I returned drenched after a rainstorm, they helped dry my clothes and shoes and allowed me to use their kitchen facilities.

The craftsmanship throughout the property is stunning. Beautiful tables, counters, and details made from local wood are everywhere. The main house and cabins are among the most beautiful examples of architecture I have seen in Ecuador, built sustainably with bamboo and local materials.

The bathrooms are spacious and attractive, with excellent water pressure, reliable hot water, and even a hair dryer. They offer a lovely breakfast for a small additional fee, served on a veranda overlooking hummingbird feeders and the surrounding forest. That very morning I had seen a motmot from the veranda.

I couldn’t recommend the place more highly.

Then it was time to leave.

What followed was eight and a half hours of travel to cover roughly 150 miles. Welcome to the developing world.

Elena had offered to take me to Quito, but before leaving Mindo she needed to find a very specific plant for her son-in-law. We stopped at three different nurseries. Unfortunately, she had forgotten to bring a leaf sample, and it took quite a while before she finally managed to reach someone who could send her a photograph. After nearly half an hour of searching, she found a tiny specimen.

I thought we might be there forever.

I suggested she buy the small plant and continue looking for a larger one later. Eventually she agreed, much to my relief. I was increasingly worried about making it to Baños before nightfall.

From there we stopped at a fascinating cheese shop founded by an Austrian immigrant. Aside from Cotacachi, it was the only place I had found in Ecuador offering anything beyond the ubiquitous queso fresco. I bought four varieties of sharp cheese while Elena purchased some Tilsit.

The drive toward Quito was beautiful but nerve-racking. The road was narrow, winding, and lacked passing lanes. Elena had a habit of overtaking vehicles on blind curves. Several times I was convinced we were about to collide head-on with oncoming traffic.

I tried to remain quiet, but after one particularly close call I couldn’t help crying out.

“Wow, you’re nervous,” she said.

“I’ve been in serious accidents,” I replied. “I’ve nearly been killed.”

The countryside itself was lovely. At one point we stopped for toasted corn cooked with pork fat. It was delicious. The restaurant was in Nono, and Elena seemed to know everyone there.

Later we stopped at an ATM because I was running low on cash. Not long afterward we climbed toward a crater valley. Earlier I had remarked that it looked like a volcano, and from a distance it certainly did. The valley itself was peaceful and surprisingly reminded me of Switzerland, though much drier.

It struck me because places like that are rare in Ecuador. Much of the country, unfortunately, is dominated by concrete walls, unfinished buildings, roadside trash, burning garbage, stray dogs, and people trying to earn a few dollars selling gum or packets of tissues at intersections. There is tremendous natural beauty here, but many developed areas feel chaotic and neglected.

After a brief stop we continued into Quito. Elena showed me her neighborhood before dropping me at the metro station.

I thanked her for everything and said goodbye.

Getting through the metro system took some effort, but eventually I boarded a train and rode all the way south to Quitumbe. From there I navigated the bus terminal and purchased a ticket to Baños.

Then I waited.

A thunderstorm rolled in while I sat in the terminal. Lightning flashed across the sky, and thunder echoed through the station. I had heard thunder during the previous day’s storm in Mindo as well, something that always feels dramatic in the mountains.

Finally my bus departed.

The ride to Baños took about three and a half hours. Much of the route passed through heavily developed areas that I found visually depressing—endless stretches of concrete and urban sprawl. By the time I arrived in Baños it was around 8:00 p.m.

I tried to find a taxi to my lodging. A helpful young man directed me to a four-wheel-drive vehicle, which turned out to be driven by Héctor’s son. I had tried contacting Héctor earlier for a ride but never heard back.

When I arrived, Darwin helped carry my bags. What I expected to be a brief greeting turned into an hour-long conversation.

Darwin told me about losing his mother, a loss that still weighed heavily on him. He was one of thirteen children, third from the youngest. At seventeen he left for Switzerland and began sending money home to support his family. Over the years he discovered that one of his sisters had been keeping a portion of the money for herself. At one point he sent $3,000 for a medical procedure for his mother, but according to him, the money never reached her.

It was painful to listen to.

He spoke about sitting with his mother in the hospital and eventually bringing her back to Casa María, where she died surrounded by family members who truly cared for her. His father was still alive at the time—ninety-seven years old. His mother had been only eighty-three.

She had lived on a finca high in the hills and walked long distances every day. Once, while carrying children, she encountered a puma on the trail. Darwin described her as incredibly strong and resilient.

What hurt him most was the behavior of some of his siblings after her death. Instead of mourning, many seemed interested only in inheritance. He said several had done little to help while she was alive. One sister constantly posted dramatic videos about their mother on TikTok, which upset him so much that he eventually blocked her, along with several other relatives.

As he talked, it became clear how central his mother had been to the family and how deeply her absence had affected him. He admitted that after her death he began drinking heavily. Many of the family’s problems, he said, stemmed from alcoholism, including his father’s and brother’s drinking, which eventually contributed to the loss of the family farm.

Around 10:30 I finally excused myself and went to bed. I hoped for a quiet night. Instead, I struggled to fall asleep and tossed and turned for hours. When I finally drifted off, I had a strange dream in which Darwin was trying to initiate me into some sort of shamanic practice. It was unsettling enough that I was relieved when morning finally arrived.