ROLLING TIDES: FORWARD TO THE HERE AND NOW

Words and Photos by Tristan La Haye, @baby.ogre.motor @rollingtides.rt

This is the ninth post documenting the surfpacking / bikepacking / backpacking adventure that began with Rylie and Tristan starting in different parts of the world, rejoining in the US, and making their way to Central America. Now, Tristan continues the journey solo again until the end of the road in South America. Read about the ambitious journey in Part 1 HERE, Part 2 HERE, Part 3 HERE, Part 4 HERE, Part 5 HERE, Part 6 HERE, Part 7 HERE, and Part 8 HERE. Tune in each month to see how it's going.

Rain drizzles steadily from a melancholic sky above. I’m drenched, and have been for hours. No bother–the arrival of the rainy season in Central America has meant a welcome reprieve from the blistering heat. It’s still much too warm for a rain jacket, though, and I sweat despite my constant state of wetness. There is hope knowing that so far, my CrossPeak 2 has been safely sheltering me, even when the skies fill my titanium cup to the brim overnight.

The change in season feels comically fitting to my mood. My partner Rylie and I parted ways a few days ago, with her deciding to pursue other paths of adventure that don’t involve bike saddles and sleeping in questionable places. A difficult and brave decision. It’s simple to stubbornly bull forward with a plan, and much more admirable to gauge the winds and recognize when a change in course is in order. And so, the winds have blown us apart, for now. With the surfboards sold and the trailer successfully hitched to someone else’s bike in El Salvador, this truly was to be a fresh start. Our journey to the end of the world has shifted, and I’ll likely be biking alone for the next fifteen thousand kilometers. It will take about a year. I’m glad it's raining; it feels like the sky is putting tears on my cheeks.

In the past few weeks, I’ve crossed three borders, pedaling down El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, and into Costa Rica. Though these countries are relatively small, these milestones have helped propel me forward. The first few days of biking alone, I thought I would crush miles. I thought I would distract myself from the pain of fresh separation with big hills and a grueling pace. What really happened, though, caught me off guard. My unwavering resolve–wavered. I slowed down. I suddenly really didn’t feel like biking to Patagonia at all. In fact, the thought almost sickened me. How could I spend the next year of my life pedaling? The scope of what I was trying to achieve hit me like a semi-truck. I wasn’t even halfway. These feelings followed me like a shadow over hills and cobbles, quiet dirt roads and busy highways. All the while I doubted, I questioned, and yet I slowly pedaled forward. Ever forward.

Gradually, the land would change. Then change back again. The clouds parted, letting the sun shine through. People I spoke with asked the same questions, but gave different answers to my own in return. All were living their own lives through their own struggles. Farmers, ranchers, and miners all work incredibly hard to earn a living here in Central America. In Nicaragua, I camped on a farm with 200 head of cattle, which they milk by hand every day. The next day, I pitched camp behind the fire station of a local town. “Bomberos” are often welcoming and friendly to bike travelers. One of them, Jonathan, explained that his country was beautiful for tourism, but locals don’t often get the chance to explore because everyone is so busy working to support their families. As a full-time firefighter who stays at the station working late and rises at 5:30am for daily chores, Jonathan makes about $300 a month.

Conversations became easier as my Spanish improved, but guesswork was still often involved. Because connection is not an inherent part of my life as it was while traveling with a partner, I’m more drawn to seek it out. I’m drawn out of my comfort zone, and further still. I’m asked time and time again, “Where is your partner?” by people I’ve never met before. They have no idea that our roads diverged only a few days ago. The jab makes me emotional, and I’m met with empathy from strangers who know the value of community. Despite being alone, I somehow feel held by the world through the generosity and curiosity of people willing to help in any way they can. I met a fellow Quebecois bike traveler, and we shared some sweet miles of relating and a much-needed hug.

The next day, I received a text from an old friend telling me he had friends in Costa Rica. It turns out, they were only an hour of pedaling away! Serendipity demanded I visit them, and I felt at home as soon as I set foot into their little air-conditioned apartment. They took me surfing and shared meals, laughs, and stories. Beyond the much-needed laundry and shower, the friendship with those inspiring humans is what fuelled me most. Maybe I’m not alone after all.

Through the act of slowing down, I notice birds I’d never seen before, and often stop to watch them. I pedal further still. Sacred trees splay over the road, entrancing me even through the long days on the Pan-American highway. I know that if I saw any of these giants for the first time, I would be awestruck. So I aim to see it all in this way–fresh. A man in a park, Luis, tells me about the famous Guanacaste tree, and poses for a picture under its shade, proudly displaying his Costa Rican residency card.

I learn to appreciate the little things again. A leaf. A fallen butterfly. A suspicious lack of ants at a campsite. I still haven’t made peace with the ants. They scare me more than bears ever have. One morning, I woke up to find that tiny ones had somehow found their way into my camera and lens. I chuckle to myself after vigorously trying to shake them out. There really is no fighting these guys.

I’m learning that in an adventure like this, where the end is far from sight, I should be looking around at where I am, not where I’m going. Whether you’re doing the PCT, on a glacier traverse, or bikepacking the Tour Divide, we’re all here by choice. We have the opportunity to keep choosing, at every moment. Although this may sound like an adventurous spiritual awakening, it’s far from it. I am still making mistakes, getting frustrated, and sometimes feeling lost. But through the dark moments, this agency helps remind me that even with tear-streaked cheeks, alone, I’m incredibly lucky. I daydream of stability, and know that if I had stability, I would daydream of the road. So, I come back to where I am, because there’s really nowhere I’d rather be.