Why, you might think? The state offers diverse mountainous landscapes and a gorgeous coastline, the country’s best cuisine from outstanding street food to Michelin star restaurants, and deep cultural and artistic immersion through it’s expression of colour, textiles, art and music. What’s there to be nervous about?

Travelling in Mexico often asks you to come face-to-face with the impacts of gentrification and globalisation. We’ve all seen footage of protests in Mexico City. In Merida earlier this year, I saw artists had graffitied the Monument a La Patria with anti-tourists and anti-gentrification slogans. And I was aware of how deeply Oaxaca’s historic centre has been changed by tourism, with a 77% increase in visitors since the pandemic and since the rise in international interest in cultural festival periods like Día de Los Muertos—thanks in part to Disney’s Coco— which is traditionally a family-based commemoration of deceased loved ones. Reporting like this from The Guardian had my mind in a twist.

I had visions of the historic centre, now listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, flooded with tourists and souvenir stores. I wanted to spend considerable time here over and above anywhere else we’d already visited, but was anxious at the impact I’d have.

We’d just spent a long weekend in Puerto Escondido, meeting up with beautiful friends Alice and Iwan, who we know from Canada. It was a fun albeit sweltering weekend of relaxing by the ocean and eating outstanding seafood. The beaches are beautiful, no doubt. But I felt at times like I’d transported to Byron Bay in Australia or somewhere in California. Seeing the beachfront transform, a lot of it for the tourist gaze with smoothie shacks, beach bars and glitzy clothing boutiques, confirmed a lot of my fears.

Arriving in Oaxaca de Juárez

But when I arrived in mid May, the city was fairly quiet. We’d arrived in the middle of the low season.

I was immediately enamoured with the shape of the hills forming a backdrop to the city in every direction. The smoky scent of the comal ready to fire up tortillas. The vibrancy of every home, bougainvilleas spilling over fences, the streets lined with jacarandas, oak, native huaje and giant flame trees, and the soft whistle of birds in the early morning.

A few days in, I walked into an eatery called Metate, for a flor de calabaza quesadilla (zucchini flowers - a must try). The owner Manuel, with his booming voice chatted to me in Spanish, “Do you like to dance, Emily? Tonight, there is a street party in my barrio, come!”

The barrio, coincidentally, was Xochimilco, the oldest neighbourhood in the city, celebrating its’ 100th anniversary.

That night, we came and danced in front of a stage set up next to the barrio’s church, treated to tropical coastal music by a band of nine young men: Los Tropicostenos. Their uniform white trousers and electric blue button shirts were a sign of the effervescence and energy they held on stage— trumpets, three sets of saxophones, keys, drums and vocalists hyping up the crowd to dance in a non-stop frenzy of movement that was somewhere between jumping and double-time tap dance. We were the only foreigners among the crowd (“kangaroo!!!” they exclaimed when the singer pointed us out in the crowd and asked where we were from") of all locals of all ages.

The next night, freshly settled into our apartment for the month ahead in that same barrio, I heard the sound of horns and strings and singing once again in the street. I quickly put on my shoes and followed the sound. Outside our building, a group of people had gathered around a band of musicians, cloaked in heavy black and burgundy robes and porting guitars, mandolins and castanets. The tunes sounded as old as the neighbourhood. I later learned the whole affair was a type of pasacalle with traditional Tuna music — a lively style of Spanish-rooted medieval and renaissance folk music—originating in 17th Century Spain.

They gradually moved down the street, tracing the cobbled lanes decorated with rainbow bunting and muralled walls. Among the crowd was a 102-year-old woman (so someone said) pushed in a wheelchair by her companions. More neighbours congregated. Someone offered me a small cup of mezcal, while others started passing around snacks, biscuits, plastic roses, bigger cups of red wine.

Folks were dancing and singing along, standing by a slew of stickers on the wall of a workshop building that read: “A hundred years of adobe and stone streets—may the Tuna sing to us all night long.”

“Otra! otra!” the people chanted while the musicians paused to catch breath and swig another gulp of wine. By then the sky started to tremble, deep thunder and sharp cracks of lightning until the clouds cracked open and a heavy downpour descended onto the party. Everyone quickly dispersed and we ran down the street to our place, drenched and laughing. To walk by and be welcomed into such a wholehearted display of community was not what I expected that day.

That first weekend symbolised the months to follow.

This city knows how to celebrate. The sound of cuentes - fire crackers - as a nightly ritual has become second nature now.

June brought the FIFA World Cup and with it an undercurrent of national pride and overt fanaticism. Idyllic parks like El Llano turned into public screenings, amassing thousands of viewers for every Mexico game and with it deafening horns, live brass music and unrelenting screaming and singing.

July welcomed the Guelaguetza, a full month of festivals, parades, dance and food that celebrate the multitudinous cultures of Oaxaca, a state that’s divided into eight regions, home to 16 distinct indigenous language groups including 176 unique dialects. Every single neighbourhood, town and region has its own art, textiles, crafts, food, language, style, beliefs and tradition that’s been cultivated for centuries.

Even now in August - festivals, expos, calendas (a traditional community procession or parade that moves through the streets to announce and celebrate major events) and the sound of myriad horn and brass instruments are never too far away.

And sharing is the heart of Oaxacan culture.

Three months in Oaxaca has revealed the state’s immense diversity and profound beauty, alongside its vast inequalities and challenges. Water scarcity, high poverty rates, strained public services and a corrupt government to name a few.

And here, Mexico’s complex relationship with the United States is felt deeply, as generations of rural families have seen their children jet off north in search of work and stability. Meanwhile, US citizens make up about 70% of total migrants in Mexico (not including people who come and go every year within the 180 day visitor visa limit).

The struggle between embracing the right and opportunity to modernise, earn money and grow commercially, versus maintaining centuries of valued tradition, indigenous knowledge and skills is felt by businesses and families daily; as I’ve been told in conversations with the likes of mezcal producers, clothing designers and teachers during my time here.

But I have not once felt like I wasn’t welcome here. Instead been met with warm hospitality and many words to the effect of “welcome to Oaxaca, we’re so glad you like it here.”

I’m not claiming that coming here as a tourist and staying a few months doesn’t impact the community, the cost of living for locals, the rise of gentrification. It most definitely does and it’s a quandary I am reflecting on and working through daily. The disparity between the tourist dollar and local wages is huge; and as my teacher Martin said, the state relies too heavily on it— it is Oaxaca’s biggest industry, and yet it’s concentrated into very specific areas. Celebrations like the Guelaguetza have become an integral part of Oaxaca’s tourism offering, but they’re also still a form of resistance, as art and joy in the face of challenges will always be.

As much as I can, I rent and stay in accommodation from local owners, I buy produce from street vendors and markets, I eat at local restaurants over chain stores. I avoid any tour businesses that are foreign-owned. Here in Oaxaca there is an incredible opportunity to support artisan, indigenous, women-or-family-run businesses, cooperatives and communities (I’ll list some below!)

It’s made me realise that travelling itself is not necessarily the issue, it’s how we choose to travel, spend our money and time and engage with local culture that has more of an impact. Learning Spanish and speaking with people about their lives goes a little ways.

I’ve got many stories from Oaxaca to come— in the coming weeks I’ll share more about travelling to the pueblos and the mountains (my absolute favourite) and Oaxacan food & drink!

A selection of city-based cooperatives & women-run businesses:

• Collectivo 1050 Grados - a beautiful pottery cooperative that sells works from female hand-clay potters from around the state of Oaxaca and runs monthly workshops with guest teachers from the participating villages.

• Origen Textil - sustainable, experimental women’s clothing brand made using natural pigments (one of a number of examples of hand-dyed and crafted garments in this city!) A nice article about the creators here.

• Zapotec Travel by Lily - Lily re-matriated from the United States to embrace her Zapotec roots and run a tour business that works with 100% small indigenous-owned, women-led businesses/communities. Skip the overly commercial mezcal booze-tours and go with Lily.

• Huizache - a cooperative of 57 families from many different towns around the state, unifying to sell one-of-a-kind pieces from clothing, shoes, pottery, blankets, handbags and jewellery.

• Maka Yoga - for when you need a welcoming, inclusive space to stretch.

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All words, opinions and any errors are my own. I do not use AI to edit my work.

We’re in an outer suburb of Palenque, Mexico, a city known for it’s impressive ancient Mayan city complex, looking for lunch after picking up a hire car.

We roll up to a house-slash-restaurant. Restaurant is a loose term. There’s a few plastic chairs and tables in the front yard and an elderly man turning a few whole fish on his open grill.

When I push open the gate, the man is wide-eyed, welcoming but seemingly confused. Out of two options, we choose the fish we’ve never tried before: it’s long and skinny, with lizard-like scales and a toothy mouth. His wife is sitting on a low rocking acapulco chair, fanning herself with a handkerchief. It’s between 35-40 degrees celsius, it’s about all one can do on a day like this.

The fish is presented to us on a plate, alongside some fresh tortillas, lime, and salsa. A large jug of lemon water to wash it down. We’re sitting in the front yard of their home at a plastic table with a floral tablecloth. “How did you find us?” he asks in Spanish. “On Google Maps”, I replied— a concept he can’t quite seem to get his head around.

We dive into the fish, pulling away its scaly exterior to find abundant flesh. Callum adds a spoonful of the roe into his tortilla, confident that it’s a delicacy like in any other fish. I add a bit to my next bite. But the owner soon realises and hurries over, working with the fork to separate the roe from what we should be eating. He reassures us it’s not a big deal that we ate the roe, but a moment later gossips to some delivery drivers who’d rolled up out front: “they just ate the eggs…”

Cal searches on his phone for a few minutes then looks up at me with a blank expression: “I think we need to go to the hospital.” Apparently garfish eggs are highly toxic for humans.

Shit, I think, we might have really done a number on ourselves this time.

So instead of driving off into the afternoon heat to bathe in waterfalls, we park up next to the nearby hospital, armed with electrolytes, and wait for over an hour to see if any symptoms arise. We’re nervous laughing, I’m internally freaking out.

Nothing happens, but we decide to play it safe and stay close to town that night instead of venturing off into rural Chiapas.

Road trip round two

The body is gratefully well the following morning.

When I started searching the possibilities of where to go on this road trip, I realised there are so many waterbodies in the state of Chiapas: its 45 or so rivers and lagoons supply over 30% of Mexico’s total freshwater needs. We do not have anywhere near enough time to get to them all. We choose the main route from Palenque to San Cristobal de Las Casas, which goes by two of Chiapas most well-known cascades: Misol Ha and Agua Azul.

We arrive early enough at Misol Ha to be able to swim close to the torrent of water plummeting off a fern-laden cliff into the basin. Normally swimming past the rope a few metres from the rocky shore is a no-go: unfortunately a lot of locals cannot swim. A cave behind the waterfall must be explored—it’s a 10 peso entry fee to borrow a torch— leading to another pool forever trapped in the dark and the home of many bats.

We learn quickly that driving through Chiapas isn’t a fast affair. Best to double your estimated drive time. Every couple of kilometres we pass through another village, filled with frequent topes - an almost invisible concrete ridge in the road designed to slow down the traffic. Red moto-taxis trundle along the bends, ferrying locals to and fro. In places, the steep tropical hillsides remind me of Ha Giang in rural Northern Vietnam. Though this route has no home stays, most villages have comedors (restaurants), pastelerias (dessert stores) and road-side fruit stands to fuel up and savour the country air.

Nature brings people together at Agua Azul

Later we arrive at the state’s most famous falls. I had visions of Champi Alvarez’s quiet morning of solitude at Agua Azul where she writes of the creamy blue waters uninterrupted by human bodies, flowing seamlessly and endlessly over the camel-coloured clay that shapes the river bed.

But we’re here mid afternoon on a Friday and the place is swarming— as Champi also warns. We’re put off at first, but then I notice that most people are here in big groups of friends or family. Kids are wading in the shallow sheltered pools while teenage boys leap from the bank into deeper and chillier swirling pools with jeans on. In a few short conversations we learn they’re all local or from towns within a few hours drive. You can’t be mad at everyone wanting reprieve from the heat, and it fills me with joy to see locals embracing their natural surroundings.

Still, Agua Azul is a masterpiece of nature.

I’m accustomed by now to most natural places in Mexico being a place for commerce too— small restaurants, and makeshift stands with homemade signs saying “micheladas, cocos, mangoes” are ready to welcome any obliging visitor; while others sell woven bracelets and stones, t-shirts and other trinkets.

We make our way up river, passing the busy tiendas and gradually finding a wider, more tranquil part of the river above the many tiers of cascades where the crowds have thinned. Here we idle away time, swimming and chatting to more young folks, sharing in our curiosity about cultures and countries so far apart. We watch little children play running and chasing games in and out of the water, the shrill high pitch of their giggles filling me with joy.

We’re told you can go so far up the to meet the birthplace of the river, but only with a guide earlier in the day. Shrouded in thick jungle vegetation with water so clear and cool, I can imagine how serene such a place might be.

But the third waterfall, found by searching “cascadas” on google maps the following day after a night in the town of Ocosingo, is easily the most pleasant.

Here, water cascades down a glade of trees in a long flowing movement, and gathers in small pools deep enough to put your head under. Families are sitting in the river, while some members prepare food on the grills and picnic shelters provided (at 40 pesos per hour). It’s Mother’s Day in Mexico that day, one of the most important days of the year, and they’ve gathered to pay homage to their matriarchs.

We wander upstream and see more of the same, big groups gathered together, speaking a mix of Spanish and Tzeltal Maya, all of them wave us hello.

On we drive to San Cristobal de Las Casas, a city I’m enamoured by instantly and will easily return to when I next come to Mexico. Unlike the rest of Chiapas, this town is high in the mountains, bringing very welcomed cooler temps. The coffee is fantastic— the streets filled with well-preserved colonial architectures and the food is top notch. Four days is not nearly enough.

As with many other places, I leave Chiapas in awe of its under sung landscapes and with far more intrigue than what I arrived with.

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We’re a short drive into the Calakmul Biosphere Reserve when our driver and guide, David, suddenly pulls over.

It takes a full minute for my brain to catch up as we jump out of the car and follow him over to a clearing in the trees. I’d heard of jaguars, pumas and ocylotes in the forest but I did not expect to see a tapir. And yet, here we are, about fifteen metres away from a native Baird’s tapir in the wild, quietly munching away at long grass by a pond. Incredible.

It’s not even 7am and we have been on the road for two hours already. We’re on our way to visit the largest and once most powerful ancient Mayan cities in Mexico.

The Calakmul Biosphere Reserve is part of the Selva Maya (Maya Forest), the second-largest contiguous tropical rainforest in the Americas after the Amazon, sprawling 15 million hectares across southeastern Mexico, Guatemala and Belize. Its also one of the largest protected areas in Mexico, established as such in 1989, and named as a biosphere in 2014.

We take a walk through the sunlight-dappled forest, among many of the region’s 1500 species of plants. I mirror David’s footsteps as he treads gently on crunching leaves. Hushed and alert, binoculars at the ready. Somewhere among hanging vines, Honduras mahogany trees and strangler figs, we hear the “craw-craw” sound of a toucan, and I soon spy it’s bright yellow feathers and hooked beak. Then there’s the birds I don’t recognise but are no less beautiful: laughing falcon, Yucatan jay, a ruddy woodcreeper and the pheasant-like great curassow. A gloopy algae-covered pond apparently houses a crocodile, alongside tiny turtles which camouflage perfectly with its surface.

“Let’s see if we can find some monkeys,” David says, and within minutes, lo and behold, the rustling canopy reveals four howler monkeys working their way across impossibly thin branches. One small baby timidly follows suit. Through binoculars I watch the largest of the group shred leaves off twigs as it moves.

All of this already surpasses my expectations of today’s experience, and we haven’t even arrived at the main event.

The might of the ancient Maya at Calakmul

A three-hour walk around the reserve and ruins of Calakmul reveals a semblance of what was once here—only 21 buildings out of an estimated 6,750 have been excavated and restored. Grand temples, administrative buildings and palaces rise up above the canopy of the now mostly regrown wilderness. The city was developed over a period of 1,000 years but it experienced most dramatic growth during the powerful Kaan kingdom from 636 AD when the Kaanu'l dynasty moved their capital to Calakmul.

We wander through common housing and market places, where around 60,000 people lived at its height among many other beings: family members, turkeys, quetzals, chickens and deer. David tells us the region has long been rich for growing corn, squash and chilies, so these goods were traded with other Mayan groups for cacao, honey and other specialties. An array of ancient metates (rectangular stone slabs used to grind flour) still lie among the scrub. We’re shown images of people selling carpets, hammocks, pottery, woven baskets and animals, all practices which more or less continue in Mexico today, and I can fully picture the hubbub of life here.

The morning devolves into a sweltering humid heat. I’m dripping in sweat by the time I climb to the top a 45 metre limestone pyramid to look out to where Guatemala begins, some 35 kilometres away.

I try to visualise a wide stone causeway that once connected different populations of the empire’s hundreds of thousands of people for trade. There’s evidence that some of the huge stone monoliths (stelae)— used to carve depictions like the three Mayan cosmogonic levels— erected in front of the city’s core buildings were brought from Guatemala. Goodness only knows how; they never used wheels or animals to transport goods!

Recognising that these stones plus all those used to shape the city, were moved, sculpted and constructed using human power and basic tools, is quite remarkable.

Eventually the population declined after warfare with Tikal; the city was abandoned by 750 AD. It wasn’t until 1931 that it was brought to attention by Cyrus Longworth Lundell, an American botanist and archaeologist.

Lundell was taken to see the ruins in the jungle by a group of chewing gum hunters (natural gum is derived from an evergreen tropical native tree Manilkara chicle). He didn’t realise the significance at the time of what they found emerging from overgrown scrub.

Now, researchers know more about the landscape, cities and the complex operations of the Maya in this region thanks to revolutionary laser scan technology, revealing deeply buried ruins across Campeche and Guatemala.

To think that nature almost reclaimed all of this.

A volcano of bats at dusk

I already feel like I’ve had a full David Attenborough-style day. But it’s not over.

The Calakmul Biosphere Reserve directly touches another: Balam Kú. At dusk, we visit a cave along the main road to witness another marvel of nature. Up a short trail, a wide, impossibly deep cavern depresses into the hillside in front of the awaiting crowd. There’s a more folks than normal here today, we’re told, and it’s difficult to hush all the whispers, despite being instructed to keep total silence.

It’s a few minutes after the sun goes down, around 6.30pm.

Suddenly a torrent of tiny bats comes swirling up from the cave. I crane my neck to look above as the stream of black specks floods above the canopy and off into the distance. Here, between three and six million bats live and observe this ritual—now known as “the volcano of bats” in Spanish— to hunt for food by night, some travelling as far as 70 kilometres away. On the menu Mosquitos and other insects.

We’re told it takes the bats two or three hours to all exit their home for the evening meal. I try to count even a small portion of them but it’s all a blur.

I’m left totally mesmerised as my eyes adjust to the impending darkness, as the animals go deep into that enormity of wilderness.

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There I was, descending The Pit, a deep cenote dive on the Riviera Maya near Tulum, Mexico. The Pit is a 120 metre vertical shaft sinkhole. From the surface it’s rather unassuming. A narrow pool reveals itself between craggy limestone rocks sprouting with leafy plants. A perfectly welcoming and tranquil spot for a dip.

But once you descend past the narrow, steep entrance, you find yourself underneath a cavernous overhang embossed with stalactites. Everything becomes a lot darker.

We’d been briefed thoroughly by our dive guide about all the expected stages to navigate, but somehow I still forgot that at around thirteen metres we’d pass through the halocline— an optical illusion where fresh water sits on top of salt water. At this layer, light refracts off the change in density and causes a blurry, distorted view.

I was preoccupied with the fact that my ears were not properly equalising (very dangerous when diving) and believed that my vision was blurring because my ears were not in balance. Am I really feeling dizzy or am I imagining this? What’s happening to my brain? I was kicking with my legs below me, unable to stay horizontally buoyant, forgetting all the staple diving rules. The darkness was becoming overwhelming. It’s the closest I’ve ever felt to claustrophobia.

Thankfully my guide realised something was wrong and gently guided me a few metres up. I was pointing at my ears and my eyes, shaking my hand with the appropriate signal to show something wasn’t right. He stayed with me til my breathing slowed again and motioned me to try again to descend. All challenging things to do without speaking a word.

By the time we started to go back down, I was all, what was I thinking signing up for this dive? We circled the pit slowly, suspended as though in midair, edging closer to a cloud-like layer made of hydrogren sulfide that hovers at around thirty metres deep. The top of a solitary, leafless tree branch broke through the thick fog. Above us another group of divers were starting to descend, their torches flicking between the beams of sunlight that shone into the blue pond.

I knew this was meant to be a surreal, ethereal experience witnessing these spectacular cave formations at depth, and I guess it was in a I might die today in this bottomless abyss kind of way. I had a moment’s appreciation of the weirdness and beauty of it— after all, the bedrock is some 65 million years old while the sinkhole collapse that created The Pit’s opening is up to 13,000 years old— but otherwise I was really just wigging out, struggling to be present the way I had in other dives. All I could do was concentrate on breathing slowly and try to remain calm. I was counting down the minutes before we could resurface.

That was my first of two cave dives (the following was much shallower), an experience I am not sure I’ll look to repeat in future. Look— I’ll acknowledge that I had a head cold that weekend, my sinuses weren’t at their best. And I chose to ignore all advice about not diving with such symptoms because I’d already spent the money, I couldn’t get a refund and I was only going to be there once. Sometimes a teenager attitude still seeps through my 32-year-old brain.

Maybe I’m floating, maybe I’m flying

By contrast, the previous day I was diving among huge coral columns in a calm dive off the Great Maya Reef, the second biggest barrier reef after Australia’s Great Barrier Reef. There, the water was a brilliant 27 degrees, and I was literally laughing through my regulator at the enormity and sheer insanity of what I was looking at.

What even am I looking at?

Shapes and colours and species that I couldn’t even begin to name— wriggling spaghetti strands of neon purple and orange, giant conical sponges of deep mauve; within which lived countless fish and slugs and crabs. Each coral garden was a universe in itself; scenes I could have lingered and watched all afternoon.

We accessed that reef from Cozumel Island, which you travel to via ferry from Playa del Carmen in Quintana Roo, on Mexico’s southern coast. From the surface the water looked like a giant plate of blue jelly. This final dive at the Cozumel was the stuff of dreams: zero current, incredible visibility and an abundance of life. We floated among gentle reef sharks, lobsters, an eagle ray and a chunky grouper. Plus, we were far removed from mellower dive sites which were swarming with other divers and big snorkelling tours.

I first got into scuba diving with a little encouragement from my partner — his tales of submerging in the tropical waters of the Philippines back in 2017 filled me with curiosity. (And mid-covid/ mid-winter discounts off an open water course). But unlike him, I didn’t grow up by the ocean. We rarely took beach holidays (we’re more of a mountains family) and so I had a bit of a fear of deep water.

I spent my twenties living in Sydney, Australia, which helped me embrace the ocean. I slowly got more confident swimming in the waves and loving the way salt water makes you feel weightless, clean and alive. But prior to scuba diving I’d never really been out swimming in the middle of what feels like nowhere. I vividly remember my first deep water dive in 2021, stepping out off the back of the boat, all awkward with huge fins, heavy weights and aluminium tank, my body covered head to toe in neoprene to brace the cold winter temps. When we descended, the sun was shining brilliantly through the salt, casting crepuscular rays like a sunset. I couldn’t see the ocean floor, just seemingly weightless matter surrounding me on all angles and I had a distinct moment of thinking, maybe this is what flying feels like.

That day, discovering the incredible reefs that lie just off Sydney’s north coast, home to hundreds of nurse sharks and groupers and weedy sea dragons, I became more interested in what’s going on in the big deep.

Nowadays, I’m drawn to learn more about the marine world. When conditions are right, scuba diving is a complete meditation. (Yes, a rather expensive meditation).

Later that week, we posted up in the small seaside town of Mahauhal. We nabbed a discounted stay at a beachfront hotel, looking forward to a few days in front of the water. Being late April it was sargassum season — big influxes of the algae ebb close to shore at this time of year and get stuck there, beginning to rot and giving off a foul sulphuric smell. Each morning we’d see local workers trudging through the brown slosh to rake it up and put it in buckets so that the resorts could welcome cruise-goers into the pristine turquoise waters they were promised in their brochure.

I asked a local bartender if they liked the cruise ships coming in. To my surprise he said yes. “It means we don’t have to travel to Bacalar or Chetumal for work any more; and it brings money to our town.”

We came to Mahahual for the diving. Mahahual has close access to the northernmost atoll in the Caribbean, called Banco Chinchorro. An atoll is a ring-shaped coral reef, island, or series of islets that encircles a central body of water. Banco Chinchorro was was designated as a Biosphere Reserve in 1996. When I say “close access”, it was still an almost two hour boat ride into a windy swell to arrive at this coveted spot. En route, I watched scores of flying fish soar above the waves, mesmerised by their incalculable silvery speed.

The diving there was exceptional for the most part. On our second dive we dropped anchor, descended, and we were met with a current so fierce that we spent the first fifteen minutes of the dive clutching to the sandy ocean floor with our arms linked. Ok, even in the ocean things don’t always go right.

After floating past dense schools of fish, observing Queen Angelfish with their brilliant yellow and electric blue scales flutter between coral canyons, and a massive loggerhead turtle that moved so gracefully, not at all perturbed by our presence, I resurfaced from our third dive on Banco Chinchorro. Mere moments after taking off my equipment, feeling overwhelmed with the beauty of what I had just witnessed, a pod of dolphins appeared by the bow of boat.

I moved quickly to the front, leaning over to watch the now 20-odd dolphins jump and squeak and torpedo ahead of me. I found myself laughing again.

I never anticipated to go to Cozumel, Tulum or any of this section of the Mexican coastline. I had many preconceptions about what it would be — overly touristic, commercialised, lacking authenticity. I didn’t expect that the natural world would so dramatically alter my impressions of these places. There’s nothing more authentic than Mother Earth.

The scary cave dive now a memory, these moments reminded me of why I started diving in the first place.

To challenge myself is one thing. But to be caught in a stupor of awe and to witness life in all its natural insanity, so much so that you forget about all else for even a moment, is something much more intoxicating.

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I notice people squeezing in ant-like formation on whichever side of the road the buildings cast the most shade. I wonder how I’m going to cope with such temps.

Then I see the city’s palette. A multi-coloured spectrum of pastels. Every home and shopfront a different shade. Bougainvilleas in purple and magenta and rose draping over doorways. An old rusting VW beetle on almost every street.

I’m continuously drawn toward the city’s tendejónes: tiny hole in the wall mom-and-pop shops selling grocery items, often attached to someone’s home. Fading Coca-Cola signs, plastic crates and boxes of yesteryear. I find out I’m not the only one. At the Palacio Canton Museum a temporary exhibition, photographer Florencio de Diego captures 20 years of life in central Merida, his images are nostalgic, emotional portrayals of commercial spaces and community ties in a city succumbing to gentrification and franchise convenience stores.

“The photographs amplify the tension between permanence and displacement, between what was and what still struggles to remain” - Florencio de Diego

At first, I’m somewhat oblivious to this tale of the city. The barrio of San Sebastien, where our homestay is, seems to retain a lot of its old life, at least on the surface, as wealthier homes are hidden from view behind smoothly painted walls. But further north, Merida is transitioning into a cosmopolitan hub, the Corredor Gastronómico de Mérida on Calle 47 flaunting classy French, Italian and Japanese bistros, wine bars and mezcalerías. Starkly different from the cantinas and traditional loncherías (places for quick food) serving up more traditional Yucatecan staples like panuchos (a refried tortilla that is stuffed with refried black beans and topped with chopped veg and chicken or turkey), cochinita tortas (slow-cooked pork sandwiches) and caldo de pavo (turkey broth served with tostadas). I’m only here for a short time but it feels like a larger shift is taking place, one largely influenced by international home-buyers and tourists.

While Spanish colonial architecture and now gentrification of those buildings is influential throughout the city, somewhere beneath the concrete once lay the Maya city of T’ho. T’ho was destroyed and built over by the Spanish from 1542. Concrete can’t destroy living cultures though, and here Maya heritage and traditions are strong in food, dress, community and language. Purveyors of guayaberas (button down mens’ shirts) and embroidered hipil (white Mayan tunic-style dresses with florals) line the city’s centre, while contemporary designers translate tradition into tailored linen crop tops and fun crochet pieces.

If day is the time for business, then night brings leisure for the people of Merida. The temperature drops just enough, a breeze ruffles through the once stifling streets. Public squares become spectacles for traditional dance, locals play soccer or baseball, families come out to eat, and the resonant sound of church in congregation can be heard. Salsa music orchestrates the steps of keen dancers til the early hours in neighbourhood bars like La Bianca Tropical, warmed up prior by a local jazz performance (check out Dzalbay) or live bands at a nearby cantina. I’m a beginner but I’ve never felt less nervous to dance, this is for anyone and everyone.

The exception is Sunday —”Domingo en Merida” — a special day where the central plaza becomes alive with activity, food and artisan vendors throughout the day. Come evening there’s live music again and the public congregates for more salsa, this time in the street. The Avenue de Montejo becomes a bike-friendly road, and hundreds of locals and tourists rent low-seat pastel bicycles to ride up and down the main artery, lined by grand French-colonial buildings. Local artists sell their wares on the footpath beneath the shade of native Maculís trees.

On weekends, it’s all about the day trip. Within two hours of every direction in Merida, there’s something to do, charming towns to visit. Naturally, we veer towards some of the region’s cenotes, of which there are hundreds near Merida. Without a car it’s colectivo rides and a mototaxi tour to various spots, all part of the experience.

Did you know? The word cenote stems from the Mayan ts’ono’ot : which translates to ‘hole with water’. These sinkholes form when limestone collapses to expose groundwater. Cenotes were a main water source for the ancient Mayans, alongside man-made cisterns they built under the earth to preserve water wherever possible. There’s estimated 6,000-8,000 cenotes in the Yucatan Peninsula, ranging from open, semi-open, cave and dry cenotes.

I learn in a tour to Uxmal, an ancient Maya city, that rituals of offering and sacrifice took place in cenotes to appease the rain god, Chaac. Founded in 700 AD, Uxmal is part of a corridor of sites known as the Puuc route. Detailed carvings in the facade of buildings show depictions of Chaac, and revered symbol of snakes and spirals to represent fertility and the continuous cycle of life. Despite an ingenious system of cisterns at Uxmal, eventually the city was abandoned due to lack of water.

Then a weekend at Chubùrna, a ramshackle coastal town that’s connected to a gorgeous lagoon and a series of man made “islas”. Here, we kayak through mangrove tunnels then sip piña coladas under wooden shelters and hammocks that stand in the shallow, turquoise waters. It’s a very touristy but enjoyable experience, noticeably cleaner (because of tourism and deliberate clean up efforts) than the town’s main beach where the strong easterly winds sweep piles of rubbish ashore.

Over a month here, I become accustomed to the rhythm, making my way around various cafes and libraries, writing and drawing and observing it all in the peak of day. Watching all the stray cats roam at ease, their bony bodies waiting for the sight or smell of discarded food. Hearing dogs bark and roosters crow incessantly during the night.

Despite my initial impressions, I become aware that this city has many beautiful things to offer beyond the surface — local art meetups, community yoga groups, incognito listening bars, pop-up parties with local disco and house DJs, small local markets one day per week. That excellent baker who chimes a specific bell when passing by. And an undercurrent of immense pride in the Yucatecan way that in itself makes it a city worthy of time.

Veer back to:

1. Cenotes at Homún - we travel twice to the town of Homùn, which has over 300 cenotes in its vicinity. Grab a mototaxi tour and the guide takes you to 3-4 different cenotes. We swim in a fully underground cave, an open-water pit with a diving board and a larger system of stalactites . Another day at Santa Barbara provides an all-inclusive but very fun experience, riding bikes between each of its four cenotes and lunch on site (just don’t visit on Easter Sunday ok! and be prepared to bob around the water in a life vest - thems the rules)

2. DE FLUS Vintage & segunda mano - lovely second hand clothes store mostly suited for women, a rare find in this part of Mexico, next door to a local designer store called Zama.

3. Mercado 60 - a modern take on a cantina, with multiple bars and food vendors within an enclosed courtyard space. Live bands. The night I go, the whole dance floor is full, the band’s singer giving a mini-salsa lesson to the mob. Also try La Negrita Cantina.

4. Dulcería y Sorbetería Colón - seasonal fresh fruit sorbet that seriously rivals Italy, served in cute coupe glasses when dining in. We come by late on a Monday after a rich celebratory dinner at Yerba Santa, a gorgeous contemporary Mexican restaurant inside a 1908 neoclassical French-style mansion over the road, run by a female chef. The guanabana sorbet (custard apple) is a perfect palette cleanser after a rich meal.

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Those are your options if you want to travel from Mexico City to Mérida, the capital of Yucatán. Considering that Mexico City to Cancun, the Peninsula’s most famous destination, is the top single route for all domestic flights, my guess is most people choose to fly.

But aren’t they wondering what they might miss out on along the way?

It’s this question, and a desire to fly less this year, that prompts me to take over 30 hours of buses through Mexico’s east across three weeks.

Here’s some tales from the road.

A flying dance under the moonlight

If we hadn’t chosen the bus life, I would never have found myself watching a centuries-old native Mesoamerican dance ritual - Danza de los Voladores - under a radiant full moon.

It’s here in Cuetzalan, on a calm Saturday evening, a cool breeze breaks the stifling heat. We’d spent the day basking in waterfalls and visiting the nearby archeological site Yohualichan. Now, loud drumming and a high pitched flute cuts through the murmur of people buying food and vendors milling up and down the stairs.

Villagers and visitors gather and sit around the large square in front of the town’s church. A large wooden pole, some thirty metres high, resides full time in the square. Here the native Nahua and Totanac people have practiced this dance and ritual (which translates to Dance of the Flyers in English) as an offering to the gods since ancient Mesoamerica. The ritual is said to have formed to ask the gods to end a severe drought, and evolved into being closely associated with solar ceremonies. Now it’s preserved as a UNESCO-recognised practice of intangible cultural heritage, and to share with tourists.

Four people dressed in tasselled red pants and white shirts sit suspended on a square-shaped wooden plank attached to the top of the pole. Thick rope is wrapped around each of their ankles. Perched on the very tip is another person decorated in a large plumed headdress. He’s playing the flute and drum. All of their costumes are impersonations of bird deities. My nerves spike at the precariousness of it.

The four seated dancers fling backwards in unison and steadily spin upside down and around like a carousel, the rope slowly unwinding and bringing them toward the earth. The flautist follows, together they all spin a total of 52 times to represent the number of years in the Aztec calendar.

We’d seen a similar ritual in Mexico City’s grand park Chapultepec, but performed using a large metal pole. It turns out only a few small villages still practice with the traditional tree trunk - Cuetzalan is one of them.

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Artisan coffee, home-made crab soup and conversations with strangers

There’s no easy way in or out of Cuetzalan without a car. The night before we leave, I figure out that we can get to our next main destination, Xalapa in Veracruz, across three different buses and without back-tracking all the way to Puebla city. A winding road takes us through the countryside and small cities across the border to Veracruz.

Xalapa surprises me. One of my Spanish teachers had told me there wasn’t much to love about it. But this university city with pastel houses is brimming with excellent coffee shops, artistic spaces and formidable parks. Circling the Paseo de los Lagos by morning becomes a ritual during my week’s stay, while a walk through the cloud forest on the outskirts of central feels a far throw away from city life. By night we listen to jazz inside a hidden library, try all the local antojitos and cook up our own version of a Veracruz crab soup, made with fresh seafood come in from the nearby coast.

Even more joy comes from a day trip in Xico, another pueblo magico an hour from Xalapa, reached by a rattling local bus. A river borders the town, so naturally the first stop is a swim. Then we walk 4km outside of town to visit Cascada de Texolo. It’s down in the ravine we meet the landowner’s son, who spends his days guarding the waterfall, taking payment from visitors and ensuring no one gets hurt on the slippery, steep path down to the water or on the treacherous boulders.

After thirty minutes of fumbling conversation, comparing our ages and last name structures and how we swear in Australia, he says “we’ll meet again, and next time you come you will have excellent Spanish.”

Two days later in the neighbouring coffee town Coatepec, we meet Miguel, a retired man who now spends his time gardening in the nature reserve in the centre of the city. We’re hungry and wanting to grab food in town, but he waves us over as we’re walking down from the viewpoint. His low jeans expose his crack, a scythe is strapped to the front and a worn shirt is loosely buttoned. Between his big sombrero and his bushy beard, a broad gummy smile presents itself. “Conoces este arbol?”, (do you know this tree?) he asks us in Spanish.

I shake my head no, so he proceeds to take us on a short tour around the foliage, pointing out the native species and the way a row of long grass has been deliberately planted to prevent too much water gushing down the hill during the rainy season. We scrunch Mexican basil in front of our noses and something else akin to lemongrass. We yarn while he takes a seat on the sloped grass. Old Miguel has a love for macadamia nuts - has 20 of his own trees on his little ranch near the city- and studied Russian literature in Moscow for four years as a youth before starting his family, who he talks about with pride.

I think possibly this interaction has made both our day and his.

A crocodile farm deep in the mangroves

An overnight coach takes us to Tabasco, where we spend a morning in the capital city Villarhermosa, then we head on to Campeche city for a few working days. From there, we could choose a straightforward hour-long trip to travel from Campeche city to Merida.

But at the last minute we opt for a weekend at an eco-accommodation and crocodile farm in the remote Isla Arena, a small fishing village surrounded by protected mangroves and a lagoon within the Parque Natural Petenes-Ría Celestún. It’s quite the detour.

The first collectivo stops in Calkini, where it takes us almost an hour and asking more than 5 different people with mixed instructions before we find the bus stop to take us to Isla Arena. At last we find it: a dirt driveway tucked in from the main street; the workers assure us a bus is arriving soon.

Two hours later we’re in a minivan, hurtling along a straight dirt road into the reserve, passing through small rural villages as the crimson sky fades to darkness.

Wotoch Aayin is the Mayan family-run accommodation, restaurant and co-operative who manage and breed the Mexican or Morelet’s crocodiles (a smaller, less dangerous species than we’re used to in Australia). Through a tour with co-owner Sergio Lizama, we learn he started their project two decades ago when the Morelet were under threat from poaching. Now they have about 600 crocodiles, separated by age in different open-air enclosures. Though around 100 are killed to eat each year. The community here lives off crocodile, fish and octopus as their main protein sources, the only easy option considering the next town with agricultural land is more than 70km away.

Wotoch Aayin offers a relatively basic but comfortable way to spend time close to nature. By morning we kayak around the lagoon and inspect the four different mangrove species up close: their tentacled branches and roots provide homes for myriad fish, horseshoe crabs, water birds and even raccoons. I keep my eye out for pink flamingoes, but our timing is not quite right for their migrational patterns. Instead, green saplings sprouting from the mud capture my attention. A kingfisher takes flight in search of breakfast. We drift slowly while bird calls echo through the forest and tiny fish zoom rapidly just below the milky surface. This grove is a whole universe in itself, multiplying and filtering and storing carbon.

Jaguars and ocelets roam somewhere in the jungled forest across the bay, Sergio tells us. He also says the reserve’s name, “Los Petenes” means “circular place” in Maya and refers to the hundreds of cenotes found in the area.

In the pitch dark of night we follow a boardwalk through the mangroves now lit with fireflies, then sit on the pontoon and watch a thunderstorm unfold far beyond the water, one hundred kilometres away. It’s burly and magnificent.

Around 20 kilometres south is Celestún, another entrance to the bio-reserve and a very popular spot to see pink flamingoes. I’m told it’s quite established with tourist infrastructure like boat tours and restaurants.

By contrast, outside of Wotoch Aayin, Isla Arena feels like a place long-forgotten and neglected. Only two accommodations seem to be open (including ours). Others that perhaps once functioned are now empty and rusting in the salty sea air.

One night Sergio drives us down the bumpy potholed road through town at 9pm to buy some snacks from a small shop for dinner (all food places are already closed). He tells us the government doesn’t spend any money here. Because they’re in the reserve, a tarmac road can’t be built. Most houses are made from cinder block or make-shift pieces of tin and timber. Piles of trash linger along the road.

It demands a moment of pause. Tourism in Mexico seems to be fairly concentrated in a few key areas, and the outliers lose out significantly. A 2023 report said the closure of the Tourist and Cultural Complex was causing the Isla Arena economy to collapse. Locals said without tourists, fishermen can’t sell their fish to the restaurants, the shops too lack business. Their one hope was that the new train network, Tren Maya, would help revitalize the port’s economy. That all remains to be seen.

It reminds me of Emma Schneck’s great essay: what happens when the tourists stop coming? What then?

Leaning into discomfort and slowness

These meandering, long bus rides may sound tedious or risky. Apart from the fabulous major bus network which we take often, collectivos or minivans very rarely have a written timetable or information online.

In the vans, my skin sweats in the heat, yearning for air conditioning. My nose pricks at the acrid stench of burning rubbish when passing through the outskirts of towns. I can’t often read because it’s a little too bumpy.

But it gives me more time to just sit and notice. To stop in places I’d never heard of, interact a little more, ask questions of strangers and figure things out for myself.

I think this side of travel has been lost a little bit, what with many experiences being part of organised tours or a predefined list of “must-do’s”. We like to think we can be in control of all of the outcomes, to ensure we have a perfect trip. We don’t want to miss the thing that everyone else is doing. But this removes discomfort, it stifles curiosity and it makes travelling way too generic and easy.

Not everything is a hit. Sometimes the bus doesn’t come on time. Sometimes you’re squished into the backseat with no airflow.

But it’ll almost always give you something you didn’t expect. And that to me is always worth it.

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It’s the home of the native Nahuatl and Totanac peoples, it’s a place where time shifts a little more slowly, language takes many forms, and the land has long been a precious resource for cacao, cinnamon, fruit and honey.

On the edges of town, beyond the bustling marketplace in the main square, stacked white buildings with curved terracotta tile roofs give way to country lanes. A few small dogs doze out the front of every cinder-block home, some painted with murals, chickens bob by the grooved road, and banana trees branch into view.

It’s somewhere further in the depths of this landscape steeped with huge palms, towering bamboo and tree ferns, that I find myself in a deep rock pool in the middle of a three-tiered waterfall.

I hear nothing but birds and the most calming sound on earth: water flowing over stones.

We took public transport to get here, in this case a ute track with bench seats fixed into the tray and a thick tarp overhead. The sun blasted on my skin where the tarp couldn’t fully provide shade. We’d arrived at the collectivo stop at the edge of Cuetzalan, not really knowing if we could get to the spot I had found on google maps by searching “waterfall”, and timidly asked “las hamacas?”. “Si, allá,” the attendant replied. Basically: over there. We stepped into the closest ute and waited for the unknown time of departure.

Patience is part of life out here and we’ve easily slipped into the timeless rhythm of days.

For about forty minutes we snaked and rattled around an increasingly winding road. Suddenly at the crest of a sharp hairpin bend the driver swung the truck to the side of the road and called out “hamacas” — we were the only passengers who didn’t already have a clear idea of where we need to stop. Needless to say there’s little signage out here.

Seriously sweating by then, I was eager to get into any form of waterbody but this scene exceeds expectations. We paid our few dollars entry to the owner, who welcomed us with a beam on his face.

Above where we stand at the entrance and single restaurant for visitors to eat at, I first see a thick and fast waterfall that gushes into an inviting pool. Then it morphs into a wide cascade which slides over a huge sloped rock before reaching a shallow waterhole at the base, more than 30 metres away, where the river continues into the forest. Every so often that stone has been shaped into gigantic bowls—or hammocks—deep depressions about the size of a spa. It’s there I plunge into the water, feet barely able to touch the bottom, cocooned by the smooth hammock walls and body shocked from the cool relief. I eat an entire mango and lie lazily for over and hour. I feel more at ease than I’ve felt in weeks. I read a bit of a book and ponder life and try to picture the birds I can hear and slip in and out of a snooze. We stay until the sun slowly slides away and the river is cast in shadow.

Cuetzalan is popular for its Sunday tiangui, a long-running open marketplace in the town square, where you can get a glimpse of Nahua culture, buy artisan products and traditional food. It’s also a nature haven for its many waterfalls that border the town; there’s myriad opportunities to go caving and canyoning. We’d visited a few of the falls closer to town in the days prior, one an impressive drop of more than 70 metres within a mossy cavern, accessed by a steep set of stairs. The others can be found by walking a concrete pathway down from a carpark, where construction projects are in progress on the way because owners intend to build little shops and restaurants for visitors, which is very typical of tourism experiences here.

I love travelling for adventure and adrenaline sport. I love to learn about culture and food. I love little towns that are a world of their own.

But the cascadas hamacas were something else. Far from the motions of commerce and hum of daily life. Quieter and lesser disturbed. Not easy or quick to get to, but worth the detour.

A place to simply rest and listen. A place I’d always rather be.

Veering is free to read. But if my stories resonate with you and you’d like to support in some way too, a simple like, comment or share on my posts does wonders. Or you can contribute to my caffeine piggy bank below.

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I also wanted to shout out to Kim and Alison, who kindly funded my coffee needs this week. Your words of encouragement and support are so appreciated!!

Veering is free to read. But if my stories resonate with you and you’d like to support in some way too, a simple like, comment or share on my posts does wonders. Or you can contribute to my caffeine piggy bank below.

Buy Emily a coffee

Now let’s get to it.

With love, Em.

What’s the first thing you veer toward when you land in a new city?

For me, a trip to the local market is usually part of day one. Visiting markets in my travels through South Korea, Vietnam, Europe, Canada and now Mexico have taught me so much about cuisine, language, history and human behaviour. They’re utterly fascinating hubs for trading, socialising, preserving culture, and best of all: eating and drinking.

At home in Australia, we’re familiar to a degree. Going to the farmer’s market is somewhat of a special treat. At the Addison Road Markets in Marrickville, Sydney, I used to grab myself a steaming spinach and cheese gozleme and a Portuguese tart and sprawl out on the grass, before filling a bag with organic produce. The vendors come in their food trucks or stalls once a week on Sundays, and that’s that.

In Mexico, the markets are an entirely different game. Here, public markets are a fundamental fixture in everyday life. I learn this from the moment I step into the mercado in Coyoacàn on my first day in Mexico City.

Coyoacàn is one of the city’s southern neighbourhoods. It’s grandiose colonial buildings coloured in electric blue and terracotta, set among treelined cobbled streets, are a snapshot into the barrio that Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera lived in and loved. Much of the original 1950s decor is interspersed with contemporary restaurants and coffee shops, clothing and art bazaars, a large forested park, a fabulous arthouse cinema complex, and various museums, making it a popular neighbourhood for visitors and families, while remaining much more tranquil than other parts of Mexico City.

Rapid-fire food orders and senses well stirred

The mercado feels like a portal into 1956 Coyoacán. The mustard yellow building spreads across an entire block in the barrio’s centre. I weave past stands selling tropical fruits, hessian bags full of chillies and spices, cow carcasses suspended up high and chicken necks lolling over a counter, sheets of crispy pork crackling, rows of traditional beaded jewellery and ceramic pots, plus vendors selling clothes, bags and watches. We’ll peruse this soon - for now we’re following the clinks and sizzles of people communing somewhere over food.

The first thing I notice is an open kitchen shaped by white tiled walls at about chest height. The smell of bubbling oil, fresh coriander and limes ignites my hunger. A bunch of tables tucked beside the kitchen are already filled with people; so we take a seat at a long shared table with a view of the remarkable woman kneading and pressing dough at breakneck speed.

Our neighbours at the table are eating her quesadillas — a small, deep fried variety which shatter my perception of what these tortilla snacks can be. I must have them. Two minutes after ordering, I have a crispy potato-filled pocket in hand, coat it with fresh chilli salsa; with a glass of agua jamaica (hibiscus water — a staple here) to complement the salt.

Entering the dining area of a mercado can be overwhelming. Waiters usually greet me immediately and rapid-fire a list of foods they’re selling that day. Often more than one vendor side by side talk at once, vying for my patronage.

“Chilaquilesverdeorojomoledepolloenchiladasenmoladasquesadillasdepollodecarnedequesodelonganiza…”

Before my brain has had a chance to catch up and translate the words from Spanish to English, determine the ingredients I do and don’t know, they’re waiting for me to respond with my chosen dish. For someone who experiences decision paralysis at the best of times, this is a moment of immense stress. But I’ve learned to give into the fun of it, I love the chaos. And I’ve quickly formed a lot of respect for the attentiveness of the service and the sheer pace these chefs serve up quality food.

More than food: what I learn in the marketplace

In pre-Hispanic Mexico, markets were an open air affair called tianguis that took place on a certain day of the week. These still exist in many places across Mexico —Indigenous methods of agriculture and commerce have never stopped. Some pop up outside the permanent-fixture markets weekly or for special events like Christmas or Easter, creating a buzzing atmosphere on the streets that’s always worth experiencing. But the permanent, public market places where vendors rent space from the local government and operate daily, came from the Spanish trying to regulate commerce more.

Nowadays, there are some 300+ public market places across Mexico City alone, and more than 1,000 tianguis.

Every market is a source of discovery for me, and a lot of questions: What are the locals eating? What are typical dishes to the area? What grows in the region? What kind of environment do these ingredients grow in - tropical, dry, mountainous, temperate? What other items are on offer here and why? What kind of building is this market inside of? How do the vendors and customers interact? How do people gather here? Who has shared this space before us?

At the very least I’ll leave with some new words in my Spanish vocab. Sometimes it’s a full history lesson weaved through art and politics.

I learned such a lesson on a tour with my language school to Mexico City’s historic centre. We visit the Abelardo L. Rodríguez Market, built in 1943. I get immediately absorbed in the hubbub happening at eye level. My head swivels trying to sniff the different taco meats and sweet pastries I notice as we enter, and I quickly regret not eating breakfast. But we’re not here to eat.

“Look up,” our guide Eric says. Heads rise. The ceiling is painted with florals. Almost 1,450 square metres of wall and ceiling space in this market is covered in murals, many painted by Diego Rivera’s students and helpers. We walk up a wide stone staircase where the racing marketplace becomes a quiet, empty art gallery.

A gigantic painting snakes the walls. It depicts a multilayered scene: Mexican country workers (campesinos) haul bags of sugarcane between machinery, while large hands of a bourgeois man holds a rope decorated with dollar signs, meanwhile women with children bundled in their arms appear angered and exhausted.

It’s an intricate and poignant view of life amidst the post-revolutionary, communist, and anti-fascist discourse that shaped Mexican politics in the early 20 century. This work, The Industrialization of the Countryside (1935) created by American sisters Marion and Grace Greenwood, “sought to show how the people were increasingly sacrificed for the sake of capitalist development and were becoming ignorant and exploited,” according to Dulce María Pérez Aguirre in her essay on the murals.1

Eating is never just about food. And a market is so much more than a place to buy it.

Veer back to:

Beyond Coyoacàn, here’s some of my favourite Mexican public markets I’ve visited to date:

• Mercado de Xalapa, Veracruz - here the usual formula of similar vendors being placed near each other in the mercado is let loose. A shoe repair store might be next to a fish vendor, a juice stall next to dried herbs and candles. But the mismatching is somehow very charming. The sheer volume of spices, incredible fruit and veg and ultra fresh seafood make it worth another peek.

• Mercado Mérida, Yucatàn - my local for the next month - it’s an enormous, multi-level space with dedicated sections for fruit & veg, grains, household supplies, clothing and other retail. Habaneros and mangoes for days.

• La Paz Public Market, Baja California Sur - the produce and staples left a lot to be desired (remember we are in the desert here), but I would go back for this city’s empanadas. Take a seat at a bar stool at one of the restaurants and grab a serve of hot crispy empanadas with frijoles. Breakfast of queens.

Then two weeks ago, the leader of the CJNG (Jalisco New Generation Cartel) was killed in a raid by the Mexican Army. His followers reeled, instigating acts of larceny and highway blockades across the country. For me it was a sleepy Sunday, I woke up from a nap in my hotel room in Puebla city to the sounds of an American woman outside talking on the phone with someone afar who was checking in on their safety.

My colleagues and family sent similar texts of concern. We were fine, thankfully far away from the majority of the incidents. But we had travelled by bus on the Mexico Highway the day before, which was one of the roads now blockaded due to some vehicles set aflame. Guadalajara Airport closed temporarily, and schools suspended for two days in the states of Jalisco and Michoacán. We kept our eyes on the news, ready to change plans if the need arose.

A week before the death of El Mencho, I was sunning myself on the coast of Baja California Sur. Between my work days I ate fresh battered fish tacos and plates of spicy, citrusy aguachiles (prawn ceviche made with lime juice, chilies, cilantro, cucumber, and red onion). I snorkelled alongside whale sharks. Their gigantic 20 metre long bodies glided serenely in the shallow waters of La Paz Bay. My limbs were so slight in comparison.

I went SCUBA diving off the edge of Danzante Island in Bahía de Loreto National Park. Suspended 15 metres below the surface next to a volcanic-rock reef, I gazed at fluorescent orange nudibranchs and crimson sea stars, floated among schools of hundreds of sergeant major fish, and watched a sea turtle flipper away into the current. Another day, I kayaked around the same bay, admiring the desert-meets-ocean landscape from the top of a sheet of glass. Fish jumped up to break the illusion, pelicans soared low and nosedived near the pebbly shores. A humpback’s blowhole sprayed the horizon. I camped on a beach in front of low-lying sand dunes and fell asleep to the hush of waves under a cloudless, starry sky.

That too was Mexico.

Split-screen realities

When you take the above two accounts together, it looks and feels quite discombobulating. CNN called it a “split-screen reality,” when Puerto Vallarta’s relaxed resort facade was shattered for American expats wintering there, that Sunday.

This kind of troubling event is not really new news. Nor is it singular to Mexico. As we all know the airspace across much of the Middle East is closed right now after the US and Israel illegally bombed Iran on March 1st, and Iran struck multiple sites across the UAE in retaliation. We’ve watched 700,000 people become displaced in southern Lebanon. I can only start to imagine the fear and stress travellers are going through in these places, let alone the local residents who’s permanent livelihoods are in immense danger. For whom the meaning of “safety” is likely different from my own.

In the middle of writing this newsletter, my algorithm gifted be Nadir Nahdi, who writes from the Gulf: I am safe, but not too sure I deserve to be? His words perfectly sum up what I have been reflecting on and provide a lot to consider.

In response to expats around him panicking, he writes: “Your fear is legitimate.

But your fear also reveals the map you’ve been given and who was left off it.

Some people grow up learning to trust the ground beneath them. We grow up knowing it can disappear. And moments like this expose that difference.”

Levity

I am safe, but not too sure I deserve to be?

I am currently in the Gulf. My phone is full of “are you safe?” messages. I answer yes. But there’s something I don’t say back…

Read more

6 months ago · 145 likes · 5 comments · Nadir Nahdi

I acknowledge I am very much in the first camp. It’s so easy to succumb to this privilege, to romanticise travel and to get absorbed in your own travel experiences. If you spend too much of your time flitting between museums and restaurants and nice accommodations with air conditioning and travelling via Ubers and airplanes, your eyes can start to turn rosy. I don’t usually travel that way — I’m writing this from a 7 hour interstate bus ride — but the point remains.

I don’t fear for my safety in this country and I’m not trying to add to any negative stereotypes about Mexico. I’m not travelling alone (not that solo travel is or should be dangerous for women). I’ve generally chosen to avoid what the Australian government would label dangerous zones, while still aiming to visit places beyond the main tourist circuits. My experiences and conversations with locals have been overwhelmingly positive.

But it’s all a timely reminder when you’ve been living in a small tourist bubble for even just a few days, like my Baja beach haven, that the place you are visiting is real. There are deep social, political and economic concerns that impact the people who live there permanently. The main concerns of my own visit should be: who benefits from it? Where do my tourist dollars go? What kind of impact does my being here have?

So if I were to feel fear, who should that fear really be for?

It has revealed to me, yet again, that we have a choice to pay attention or to bury our heads in the sand. Even as, especially as, visitors.

To quote Nahdi again: “You cannot opt out of the protection you were born into. Neither can I. But you can refuse to let that protection make you indifferent.”

What I do fear is the direction the world is heading. The indifference of my government in the face of relentless, too-powerful, genocidal world leaders. I fear the consequences of not paying attention. So I’m choosing to ask the difficult questions. I’m absolutely learning as I go. I hope on your next trip, or even within your own backyard, that you’ll join me.

If you have ideas for how to embrace this moral opportunity, or any experience in grappling with such events while travelling, I’d love to hear about it in the comments!

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Buy Emily a coffee

You are among giants here. Beloved grandmothers and grandfathers over 1,000 years old.

They’re whispering secrets to those who will take the time to listen. They’ll talk of a world we cannot fathom, before cars and brick houses, before their cousins were logged for money, before nature became a commodity.

They’ll recall the lives they’ve fostered, all the devil’s club and moss and lichen and squirrels and caribou and black bears, who’ve rested and grown and fed and walked in their wake. They’ll laugh at your naivety of age, for they have withstood disasters, lightning strikes, disease and more.

They’re whispering: slowly now, go gently, stay a while longer and soak it all in.

This is a conversation I conjure when I’m walking through the near-ancient giant western red cedars in Chun t’oh Whudujut/Ancient Forest, on the traditional lands of the Lheidli T’enneh. Maybe I’ve gone mad, or maybe this is what’s meant to happen when nature blows your mind. About an hour’s drive west from Prince George, British Columbia, the entry to this forest is fairly inconspicuous from the highway, you have to spot the minimal signage just in time to make the turn. But a 2km boardwalk through the forest is so worth the stop. The age and tenacity of these trees defies the stretches of my brain; towering over 40 metres above, stretching 7 metres in circumference wide.

What’s the deal with old-growth trees?

Less than 3% of high productivity old-growth forests are protected in BC (2.5 million hectares), out of 20% remaining across the province. A shocking number when BC is widely perceived as having endless forests and rich biodiversity. But the truth is, when you travel through BC you’re far more likely to see vast clearcuts and secondary, young forests. The logging industry has long taken its toll. And we don’t really know the true statistics of forestry’s impact.

I know I’m so fortunate to have wandered in the midst of some of these gentle giants across the province, to experience the force of the Pacific Northwest’s spectacular temperate rainforest environments.

Close to Revelstoke, which I called home for over a year, the “Giant Cedars” walk in Mount Revelstoke National Park takes you through a remarkable grove of trees, thick devil’s club plants blanket the floor, an ebbing creek trickles and calms your senses entirely.

Even bigger still, Cathedral Grove on Vancouver Island is one of the most accessible and popular tourist spots for seeing big trees. You can’t walk through there unmoved.

It’s there I learn how red cedars are an excellent carbon bank. According to the Ancient Forest Alliance, the red cedar “can live for more than 1,000 years and, because of its anti-rot properties, dead trees or “snags” take hundreds more years to decompose. That can mean several metric tonnes of carbon stored by a single tree.”

So they often become hosts to other trees and plants in the forest. I’ve seen cedar trunks colonized by a spruce, a hemlock or a multitude of ferns and fungi. I’ve seen fallen “dead” cedars become nurse trees for new life - tiny saplings emerge from the slowly decaying flesh, mosses, lichens and fungus make their home here. Not to mention insects. When they fall, their enormous root systems become exposed and transform into a splendid hanging garden.

On Haida Gwaii, the archipelago of islands swept off the west coast of BC, the cedars and sitka spruce are as old as time. In Gwaii Hanaas, the island’s protected National Park and Marine Conservation Reserve and Haida Heritage Site, we met Nanai Gloria, a 1,000 year old sitka spruce. Her gnarled trunk with its knuckles and knobs reminded me of my grandmother’s hands - wise, wrinkled, well-lived, but still so gentle. I spread my arms as far as I could and put my ear to her bark.

On these islands, trees are the ultimate life source: western red cedars are often referred to by northwest natives as “the tree of life”. They have been seeding there for 11,000 years, and their bark, trunks and leaves have been used by the Haida for all sorts of essential daily items: building longhouses and carving canoes, sculpting totem poles, medicine, clothing, baskets and bags, sleeping cots for babies, art, and ceremony. The Haida have fought long and hard to ensure the ancient trees in Gwaii Haanas are protected, but that doesn’t mean the rest of the islands have gone unscathed.

We visited the site where the famous golden spruce once rose, who fell victim to the islands growing tensions around deforestation on the islands in the late 1990s. Had it survived, that otherworldly spruce with a rare mutation giving it golden-looking tips, would have been over 330 years old. The Haida lost their beloved Kiidk’yaas (Ancient Tree) and the uproar was widespread.

Slightly further along that forest trail we saw young bald eagles perched low on tree branches hung over the river, their scruffy brown feathers camouflaging. The fresh remnants of coho salmon bones and guts lay on the bank, evidence bears were feasting there just moments before. A tall hemlock glowed on the opposite side of the river. The forest is alive and these trees are its ancestors, blood, flesh and bones.

Who’s protecting these trees?

When standing in some of these national parks and reserves, its easy to believe that protection is the number one priority across the province. But recent reports from Forestry BC are widely criticised as failing to protect old-growth. There are a number of ongoing campaigns spearheaded by local communities and grassroots organisations like Ancient Forest Alliance and Sierra Club working to save these forests. All of this could be helped by a new mapping tool which identifies which areas are more likely to survive in the face of climate change.

On Pacheedaht First Nation territory on Vancouver Island, the Walbran Valley has long been a site of protest against old-growth logging. There, the Fairy Creek Blockade started in the 1990s and escalated in 2021, but still continues despite many arrests and police intervention. Wins like the recent protection of 76,000 hectares in Clayoquot Sound, led by the Ahousaht and Tla-o-qui-aht First Nations, shows what can be done.

A short distance away, Big Lonely Doug, a standalone 65 metre tall old-growth douglas fir, has captured the hearts of many visitors turned activists. This beautiful video from @karishmaclimategirl sums up the emotion of such a being.

These are just some of the actions by very inspiring people who are trying to make change.

My hope, like Karishma’s, is that more people meet these old friends, and hear their whispers. Until then, go spend time with your favourite tree.

A final note - this will be my last post about Canada for a little while. My IEC visa expired in December and so I made the decision to leave the country in November for a month in Colombia, and now I’m traveling through Mexico. I hoped to chart the final few months spent on Haida Gwaii and Vancouver Island, but I wish to report a little bit more in the present. Some of the tales and learnings from my time there may find themselves in future posts.

Until then, thank you so much for reading!

Emily

About Madison: Madison Fitzpatrick is a yoga instructor, artist, traveller, and a person who infectiously spreads immense joy and gratitude. She builds thoughtful and nourishing community spaces, retreats and events for women with her twin sister at The Field Wellness. Here we find her in the midst of a solo travel journey through Asia.

My sweet friend Emily,

It has come at THE most perfect time to tell you of a place that has recently enchanted me on my travels, because before you asked I had been thinking: I really wish more people could experience life’s extremely odd and random occurrences that come from being able to travel slowly, with no plans.

It is from this place of allowing curiosity to lead the way, without boundaries of time restraints, that the mindset of ‘just seeing what happens’ has the potential to open us up to more of the magic within the Universe. And this is the place that brings me the most joy.

It began as I left the busy train station and the rainy afternoon of Taipei, Taiwan behind me. I opted to board a slow train - a breathtaking 6 hour journey, as opposed to what could have been 45 minutes, to the highly spoken about Sun Moon Lake, in the centre of Western Taiwan. The timing of my arrival aligned completely with the sun setting behind the mountains in the distance. As I took in the changing colours of the sky, my brain registered the sound of crickets and before I could think, my body felt calm. The perfect place to stay for the weekend in total peace and quiet.

I found my hostel on the lake’s edge and took a deep exhale.

“Ah Madison, you must be here for Taiwan Cycle Day tomorrow,” the hostel’s Manager said, as he looked over my passport.

I did have intentions of taking a whimsical bike ride around some lakeside path I had read about, but, no, I had not heard of the cycle day for the entire country, I thought to myself.

He continued, “Oh yes tomorrow there should be, hmm, maybe a few thousand cyclists. They’re racing the perimeter of the lake, everything will be shut down.”

I looked at this sweet, excited man and said, “Perfect, I will stay tonight and leave tomorrow morning before it begins.”

I decided to let the racers race and continue my path to find peace in the neighbouring town of Jiji.

Sometimes it is by way of detours that we end up exactly where we were always meant to be.

Early the next morning, before the race began, I stood waiting for the local bus. Google Maps told me it would take 7 hours to get to Jiji. An old Taiwanese man, walking by the bus stop, told me otherwise. And by told me, I mean I showed him my phone, to confirm the route, he zoomed in, and did some sort of shake of the head no, followed by a nod towards his car, which I registered as meaning, “I will give you a ride in a faster time.” Not understanding a foreign language can seem daunting but in this case it was definitely adding an element of surprise.

Em, do you use offline Google translate when you travel? I know I could download it or just get an eSim to figure these things out - but it truly keeps the adrenaline junkie in me extremely happy.

So, I went into 7/11, bought a pancake, and hopped into the passenger seat of this man’s car, assuming his nod meant: get in.

27 minutes later we were in Jiji.

A breathtaking morning, just waking up. Jiji’s quiet streets lined with tall palm trees swaying in a gentle breeze. Layers of mountains in the distance showcasing the colours of the just rising sun. Not yet opened shops, a collection of architecturally interesting old Asian buildings, no higher than three floors, completely still with paper lanterns strung across their laneways. A forgotten rail line running through the town centre, adding to a tale of old time travel. I began to wonder who else had landed in this town of Jiji, once upon a time.

We pulled up to a quiet intersection and stopped out front of a small building that looked to be both a shop and a home. I looked around and then up, the only English on the building was a sign reading: Artist, perched on the window’s edge of the second floor.

The word “Backpackers” appeared in fainter text underneath.

I was skeptical but hopeful that this was the Artist’s studio, and maybe, perhaps, a hostel for backpackers.

An 82 year old woman opened the front door. Before letting me step inside she pointed to little slippers for me to change into. She shuffled in her own slippers towards a table, the height of my knees, and sat down at an equally child’s size stool, to prepare us cups of oolong tea. Her seemingly frail yet strong hands wrote out the details of my passport with a miniature calligraphy pen. She took pride in each letter, slowly spelling aloud M-A-D-I-S-O-N. This was the only English I heard from her during the duration of my stay.

Language charades is a game I love playing and it was a youthful and playful match with her. Following her performance of the alphabet, she proceeded to give me a tour of every single piece of Taiwanese art in the studio with no words, just expressions and gestures. This game makes me feel alive because its one of the few times in life you are forced to tune deeper into energy of a moment, and its also just hilarious.

Checked in, post art tour, I rented a town bike off another elderly woman sat in a garage housing hundreds of bikes. She pointed to the 6 o’clock arm on her wrist watch. I said, “6pm OK, be back.” She mimicked back, “6pm, 6pm,” adorably, trying to perfect the sound. I imagine for future English-speaking customers.

I promptly veered off Jiji’s suggested town cycling route and ended up mountain biking on this little rusted townie. I spent the day giggling to myself at the absurdity of biking by way of following lines of banana tree farms and climbing mountain ridges lined with farms of cactus-looking dragon fruit.

I returned to the studio in the early evening, ready to share my adventure, over a second cup of oolong with my new 82-year-old friend, when I realised she was nowhere to be found. She had been replaced by her son, the hostels namesake, the Artist, and two other Taiwanese men staying for the weekend. Tea time had switched to whiskey time. I laughed to myself - tranquility never seems to stay for long. It’s the game of the Universe to keep me on my toes. Sat back around the tiny table, here I was on a Saturday night in the middle of Taiwan - just me, and three Taiwanese men.

Without a single word of English between the four of us, we relied on AI. Our translator, his AI bot, was oddly set as an American woman, with a very strong Boston accent. As the whiskey bottle moved closer to empty, I noticed the tone of her voice shift, she began to sound genuinely annoyed to be translating the drunken conversation of these three hilarious men and me.

I am almost certain these AI robots are people locked up somewhere, but we’ll save this thought for another time.

We carried on for hours, using her as our conversation guide, before we moved into the studio. The Artist rolled out giant scrolls, and prompted us to use his paints and brushes for our late night art session. When I presented my attempt at ink painting, they reacted in a symphony of oohs and ahhs, and began cheering. I couldn’t tell if they were making fun of me or genuinely the sweetest men on the planet.

I thought about life in that moment; how in the span of 24 hours you can arrive somewhere, make the choice to leave, land somewhere new, and then watch that new place come to life with backgrounds and characters you didn’t know and couldn’t have even imagined a mere 24 hours prior.

It is so completely enchanting to follow your intuition, to grant yourself permission to experience moments of panic, and then watch this silent shift, as only you can re-strategise and surrender to the possibility of it all.

And I realise now the possibility is the most enchanting part of it all. Not knowing can feel daunting but it can also feel so exciting, and honestly quite beautiful.

Later that night, after our art session was over, The Artist wrote on a piece of paper, “11:20am depart.”

He translated on his phone, “Slowly observe everything that happens around you.”

I went to bed in anticipation of what would happen the following morning.

At exactly 11:20am he returned out front of the studio with a pair of spicy crawfish sushi rolls and iced coffees from 7/11 for the two of us to share. We were sat in happy silence, enjoying this mismatched combo, when he translated, “get in the car.”

A cloudless blue sky, the mountains shifting to valleys of farm fields. The slowest drive I’ve ever been on at 20km/ hour - we very very slowly “observing everything happening around us.”

The car’s speed was magically matched by a CD playing only 30 second sound bits from the best of Nora Jones… my heart is drenched in wine, you’ll be on my mind forever.

And isn’t that just the most enchanting moment of all to look out of a window of a new place, take it all in and know that this place you had never heard of a week ago will indeed forever be on your mind?

Travel, for me, often makes these moments instant memories. Nostalgia takes over as I look out the window — Nora Jones definitely adds to the drama — but I’m purely alive to feel it all.

Sure hope we do, because we’re on our own now. Rick, a real Yukon enthusiast and an immigrant from some years back, has just driven us 90 minutes down a bumpy forest service route called South Canol Road. He told us how the road was originally carved out to be supply route for the US military’s WWII Canol Pipeline oil project which gratefully didn’t last, and is now used for access to wilderness adventures like ours, hunting in autumn, and a few epic dog sledding races in winter. He’s dropped us with our two kayaks and supplies at a quiet recreation site right on the Nisutlin River.

To zoom out - Nisutlin is part of the traditional territory of the Teslin Tinglit peoples, one of 14 different First Nations across Yukon, Canada. Nisutlin translates to “quiet waters” in Tlingit. The river starts in the Pelly Mountains and flows southeast until her mouth opens up into a Delta Wildlife Area, southern Yukon’s most important site for migratory birds - thousands of duck, geese and swans. We’re about to paddle 148 kilometres down the river, and from the delta we’ll then travel 11km across Nisutlin Bay to end in the town of Teslin.

This is my first proper wilderness trip. No services, no pit toilets, no fire pits, no tent pads. You can go with a guide, but we go alone. It’s just us, our camping gear stored in our hatches, five days of food packed inside bear-proof canisters strapped to the decks of our kayaks, a Garmin inReach for emergencies, a paper map book, and a mandate to leave no trace. The only clear way out is via the river.

We’d passed by the grand Nisutlin Bay two weeks prior when we entered Yukon for the first time and pondered whether we could do a river trip. After cancelling a week-long lake circuit a few weeks earlier, we were itching to get on the water and test ourselves. This journey is what the locals deem a beginner river trip. I’m still nervous, though. Here goes.

What it’s like to kayak Nisutlin River

Nisutlin is a snaking river. She twists and turns interminably. Each bend in the river is a blind corner, curved with deep U’s and C’s. The first afternoon slips by easily. It’s sunny, the current is swift beneath us. After passing a corner of slough — big sandy cliffs where the land seems to have cracked and slid away suddenly — we enter a calm section of the river. It’s here I notice something moving slowly near the surface. I see beady eyes and two small round ears. A blunt snout dips in and out. A beaver! Enthralled, we slow our boats and watch the little hunter gliding in the shallows. After 20km we call it quits and set up camp for the night in the middle of a huge sand bar, make a driftwood fire and rest with the sun on our backs.

The second exciting wildlife encounter happens in a flash - a big grey animal darts between the trees across the river from where we stop to have lunch one day. First I thought, why is there a dog in the woods? Then I hear a haunting cry somewhere in the distance to confirm what my eyes and brain took a moment to compute: a wolf.

Other consistent companions are mosquitoes. Terrifyingly gigantic ones. And many moose. There must be dozens of them around, considering how many hoof prints we see on the sludgy banks. But these creatures are elusive and silent. We wake one morning to fresh padded tracks in the sand less than a metre from our tent trailing from the forest to the water, but hadn’t heard a single peep through the night.

I’d love to say it all goes off without a hitch - but it doesn’t quite. Poor Callum has food poisoning from a meal before departure, so we stop frequently on the first two days and he somehow recovers, then have to paddle a 40km+ day after to make up for the slower start. At times, the wind goes against us while the current slows, which makes for challenging paddling. Rain sets in more than once for a few hours and I have to dig deep to find motivation to continue in the cold and wet, my raincoat cinched as close as possible to my face. My arms are truly tired - a heavy, aching feeling I’ve never before experienced. My legs are stiff, bum numb, from sitting for so long in one position. Eating copious amounts of dried mango and cliff bars and sour worms helps. Singing to myself also helps.

But I learn about the resilience of my body. And the remarkable nature of this landscape. And I think often of the fact that we are travelling down just one vein of an entire organism that is the Yukon.

What I’ve learned about the mighty Yukon

If I had to describe this territory in one word, I would say, immeasurable. Over the past two weeks, we’ve got a sense of this place that tourism slogans aptly deem “larger than life.”

Here, in Canada’s northwest, sweeping rivers and lakes pool further than the eye can see. A first hike up a vertical dirt path to McClintock Ridge took us to a viewpoint over the marshes, where the sprawling landscape shimmered gold and emerald, and the Yukon River glided through, anaconda thick. We could start to see how it was shaped by an Ice Age 20,000 years ago. There’s deep U-shaped valleys and huge bluffs bordering the Yukon River and Whitehorse (the province’s capital) formed from silt deposits on the floor of glacially-fed lakes that once covered this terrain.

The Yukon became famous during the Klondike Gold Rush, which began in 1896 and lasted for three years. You can visit Carcross and Dawson City for a peek into this era and the historical years that destroyed and transformed the Tlingit people’s vital trade route into a transportation corridor for prospectors (now known as the Chilkoot Trail).

Yukon was changed again by the Alaskan Highway, built during World War II from the effort of 10,000 men, including 3,500 segregated African American soldiers forced to endure brutal winter conditions in the wilderness. What started as a military project to connect Alaska to the other states of the USA after Pearl Harbour, has now become an iconic journey which thousands travel per year, including ambitious bike-packers on a mission to find themselves somewhere along this gruelling, endless route.

Other such expeditions are shaped by mountains and water.

In Kluane National Park, which is co-governed by the traditional owners - the Champagne and Aishihik First Nation - and Parks Canada, one can witness the largest non-polar icefields in the world; and traverse for 10 days or more through unfiltered wild terrain. We opted for shorter hikes, one tracing a dried out river bed, its stoney path surrounded by spongey, sub-alpine vegetation. And another past an old mining road lined with Cottonwood trees to climb the Kings Throne, from who’s cradle of scrambling rocks you can see far across the lakes and boreal forest. Snow furrows into the wrinkles of the upper slopes of the many charcoal-coloured mountains which daunt the flat, forever valley floor.

As we drove north up the Haines Highway to the top of Kluane we arrived in the flux of a small sandstorm. There, glacial silt has formed a barren desert-like zone that sweeps from the mountains to Kluane Lake. A major geological shift occurred in 2016, in which a glacier retreated and caused the Slim river to reroute and disappear in four days, a phenomenon known as “river piracy.” Now it’s chalk and cheese to the rich greens and golds we saw in Tatshenshini-Alsek Provincial Park just three hours south, which connects Yukon back to northern BC.

The only way into the Tatshenshini-Alsek wilderness area is a single out-and-back hiking trail to the river; or a treacherous nine-or-more-day whitewater river rafting journey down the Alsek or Tatshenshini Rivers, which involve extreme rapids, helicopter portages and glacier crossings that will eventually spit you out to the Pacific Ocean via Glacier Bay in Alaska.

These two rivers flowing through Yukon and BC have been important for millennia for salmon migrational paths, and in turn for the Southern Tuchtone and Tlingit peoples. Before the 1800s, what is now the Haines Highway was a vital fishing, hunting and trade route for these clans, connecting coastal and inland tribes. Many settlements existed along the rivers. Cabins were typically occupied from spring until the fall, the later months to catch the spawning king, coho and sockeye salmon on their way to Klukshu Lake.

But conflict between settlers, the government and the tribes, alongside illnesses brought by the colonisers, meant Indigenous many peoples died and populations dispersed. Then the highway was constructed. Now, Klukshu / Łu Ghą – meaning Fishing Place, is one of the remaining villages still used near these rivers in southwest Yukon. The First Nations continue to live in harmony with the dwindling fish and grizzly bear populations who reside here, but the ecosystem is suffering. (Here’s a great article about this in Canadian Geographic.)

What the river run taught me

Back on Nisutlin, I adapt quickly to the perceived silence, the energy spent travelling all day on water, the creation of small daily rituals as we make and break camp. I’m in awe of the river’s flow and alert to its dangers - fallen trees and big eddies and shallow rocky rapids, huge log jams that close off sections of the river.

Understanding the significance rivers have here in Yukon helps me realise the wildness and the fragility of it all. I’m distinctly aware of the many creatures and plants whose home this is. Of being surrounded by species different than me. That the way humans move through nature has a lot of impact.

I think that if the US army had continued their use of the Canol oil pipeline, that had been built on Nisutlin River’s fringes during WWII, perhaps none of this would exist as it does now. Perhaps the Delta that we emerge from after our days on the river would be devoid of life, we wouldn’t be kayaking through the shallow marshes passing flocks of birds in the hundreds.

Finally we arrive at Teslin, pack up our kayaks and order a hamburger at the local motel. I’m wobbly with fatigue but more full of curiosity than before, humbled by this rare experience in the wild, and a tingling feeling that I’ll be called to journey down a river again soon.

This post is part of my three-month road trip through southern British Columbia, the BC interior mountains and the Canadian Rockies, northern BC, Yukon and the BC west coast. You can find earlier posts here.

If you enjoy my posts and would like to support in some way, a simple like, share or comment on the post below will help my publication grow <3

Share

Or, you can buy me a coffee to help keep me motivated. Your support means a lot.

Buy Emily a coffee

It’s driving bend upon bend on a road that gives new meaning to the word “endless.” It’s the sound of loons in the distance. It’s passing countless wildlife roadsigns warning about big horn sheep, caribou and bears. It’s swimming in as many lakes as possible to break up the drive. And there are plenty.

We’re on our way north to Yukon from Cranberry Junction along the Stewart Cassiar Highway. Every couple of hundred kilometres there’s a road side petrol station, perhaps with a restaurant, but very few residences or towns. There’s no cell service. We’ve prepped with three days worth of food supplies, and a couple of potential spots to stop planned on our map. A bonafide Canadian road trip.

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I end up driving the whole way (long story, Callum has a shoulder injury), and I thought the insane distance would feel more brutal but it’s so beautiful and interesting. The southern stretch is all vibrant greens, while yellow daisies and popping pink fireweed blanket the low lying grass in front of dense woods. The western mountain ranges shaped by Bear Glacier and Salmon Glacier, one of North America’s largest that separates Canada from southern Alaska, guide us up the highway. We pass Mount Edziza, whose deep brown ridges ripple with patches of snow down to the tree line. It looks like a luxurious blanket from afar. We realise we’re driving on the other side of the range that we saw from an Alaskan boat trip earlier this summer, an amazing opportunity to get a sense of the whole region.

Lake hopping is the name of the game

Lake-hopping and swimming every time the opportunity arises is now my benchmark for enjoying any future road trips.

First its Meziadin Lake Park which is populated by grey nomads in their RVs, then we continue to camp among the mosquitoes at the very popular Kinaskin Lake.

Next, it’s Good Hope Lake, a Dease First Nations community where an emerald waterhole with aquamarine shallows glitters in the sunlight. It would be easy to miss the entrance to a tiny picnic area to access the lake, but I’ve learned to keep an eye out for dirt-road turnoffs. They often lead to wonderful places.

We eat our lunch wraps in the presence of an extremely brave squirrel, who I’d spotted foraging an entire mushroom (!) and now scurries on and off closer to the picnic table trying to steal some crumbs. Somehow this is so much more absorbing than the doom-scroll I’d probably be doing if we had service.

Nature’s entertainment.

Not far ahead, Tā Ch’ilā (Boya) Lake Park is the destination for the afternoon. We decide to stay and set up camp just a few steps from the clear cyan water. The lake’s marl bottom — a mixture of silt and shell fragments — gives it this remarkable clarity, and makes for some very squishy sensations underfoot. To spend a few days here and relax would be total bliss. There’s an honesty system rental service for canoes and kayaks and some easy walking trails around the lake, where you might spot a beaver dam. We grab a canoe and paddle lazily around the myriad bays and islands. I feel like I’m in the tropics as opposed to rural Canada.

In the evening a storm rolls in. I’m brushing my teeth outside in the rain when I notice the Engelmann spruce trees on the opposite shore have turned golden. The final rays of the day are breaking through the bellowing grey clouds to create some kind of tiara for the lake. Above, a full double rainbow emerges.

Welcome to Yukon

The final day, a four hour drive separates us from Ta Ch’ila to our next stop at a lake close to Whitehorse.

Just below the Yukon border, we pass through a huge area that’s trying to recover from wildfire. Tree remains stand limp like used matchsticks. It’s similar to the devastation we saw around Jasper from last year’s massive summer blaze, that destroyed over 32,000 hectares of the national park and some of the town. It’s always a shock to see obliteration like this, and I lament the loss of habitat here.

Finally we reach Junction 37 that connects the Dease Lake Highway and the Alaska Highway, which leads to Whitehorse. Another petrol station.

And, a small wooden caravan adorned with bright fake flowers and a canary yellow sign that reads: Courtney Caribou’s Cookshack. The owner, a charming American woman named Courtney is dressed in a blue checkered milkmaid dress, with a red cowgirl hat on. I buy a coffee and she delights at my Australian accent, and shares about her 20,000-mile road trip she’d taken once in Australia before marrying a Yukoner and ending up here. I wonder if that’s the life she first imagined for herself, but she sure seems content welcoming travellers, cooking them eggs and hoagies (sausage sandwiches) in the middle of bloody nowhere.

She wishes us a wonderful trip in Yukon.

And it’s into the land of the (even more) wild we go.

This post is part of my three-month road trip through southern British Columbia, the BC interior mountains and the Canadian Rockies, northern BC, Yukon and the BC west coast. Read the previous posts on my substack if you missed them!

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On the day we visit in late July, it’s blazing hot. A local fisherman is holding a dip net on a long pole, his shirtless skin gleaming in the late afternoon sun. He’s so close to the edge of the water, a small misstep could see him fall into the raging rapid spilling from the rocks. This gnarly faucet that thousands of salmon are trying to swim against. But the fisherman is highly skilled. He jabs his net into the tumultuous wash and after a short time pulls out two fish, keeps only one and casts the second back into the river.

We walk up over the bridge to try get a full view of the Wistet Canyon, a deeply important place for the Wet’suwet’en First Nation, whose traditional and unceded land we’re on. From up here we can see shallower, calmer waters protected by the canyon wall. There, hundreds of fish are schooled together, in what I can only imagine is a formation designed for rest. After a moment, one or two salmon leap from the water, bravely recommencing their perilous journeys upstream. This pattern repeats itself again and again.

This is my first time seeing salmon run. And my first time watching traditional fishing methods like this — a vital First Nations practice which has been occurring in this canyon for over 5,000 years. It’s all every bit as dramatic as I had imagined. I want to stay and egg them on, conjuring in my mind the ruthless and relentless journey these fish have undertaken, traveling all the way from the Pacific Ocean to try and make it upstream to the calmer rivers and tributaries where they’ll spawn in gravel beds in a few months time. Knowing the salmon populations are in severe decline, particularly the coho which we’re witnessing here, makes my will for their success stronger.

The next day we visit the traditional village of ‘Ksan in Gitanmaax, aka Old Hazelton, where a series of replica longhouses reside right on the Skeena River, and house a museum to showcase First Nations lifestyle and art. The museum is sadly closed, so we take a walk along the river bank instead. A man camped out with two other people along the bank, says hello to us, introduces himself as Tom, a Gitxsan man. He immediately starts sharing yarns, asks about our trip and gives us advice for camping in the wilderness: “Use a spray bottle of urine to mark the perimeter around your tent at night, and I promise you can leave food out no worries. Bears, wolves, will not come. But a wolverine - well, they don’t care about nothing, they’re not even scared of grizzlies.”

He tells us they’re expecting a big salmon haul that day, and offers us a few sticks if we’re going to be staying nearby. He says they distribute the fish across the whole province to members of their band (the Gitanmaax). “We sort ‘em out for our elders, the disabled, and those far away.”

Again I’m reminded: community, foremost.

These are a few of the sweet moments we’ve had so far on this road trip.

We left Jasper a couple of days prior with a vague plan for how we’d pace our journey through central and northern BC.

Now this trip is not a full vacation - me and my partner both work part time remote jobs so have to be in towns for at least three days per week. And while I have the most flexible, easygoing boss one could ask for, there is a small degree of stress associated with not quite knowing if you’ll have wifi or phone service at your destination. We quickly learn that phone service in northern BC is quite a luxury. But between sitting in coffee shops in tiny rural towns like McBride, to making use of every regional library we can find, it somehow all works!

Including work days, we’ve given ourselves six days to get to Whitehorse in Yukon, about 1,990 kilometres away from Jasper, and at this point we’re a little under half way. The aim is to allow approximately two weeks based in Whitehorse to explore south-west Yukon, then travel back down to spend three weeks or so on the islands of Haida Gwaii off the coast of BC. So we have lots of time ahead travelling in the car, soundtracked by intermittent local radio segments and a handful of old jazz and piano CDs we’d bought from an on shop in Squamish at the start of the summer.

We’re sleeping in our tent, making and breaking camp almost daily. Some are gorgeous spots like Mount Robson — one of the most striking mountains I’ve come across. Or lakeside at Fraser Lake where the dirt was so compact and crawling with ants, but the sunset so deeply radiant, I felt like I was in the heart of central west NSW. One is a highway-side RV park on the outskirts of the city of Prince George. You take what you can get.

Between working and camping and salmon viewing, we’ve walked through old growth forests, swum in rivers, lakes, local aquatic centres, anywhere to escape the heat and soothe our bodies. We eat

And so we continue north, upstream, up the highway, to some of the most beautiful, wild landscapes we’ve seen yet.

More on that, soon!

This post is part of my three-month road trip through southern British Columbia, the BC interior mountains and the Canadian Rockies, northern BC, Yukon and the BC west coast. Read parts one, two and three if you missed them!

To best view the full article, open it in a browser or Substack app. You can refer to the footnotes at the bottom of the newsletter which expand on some points I make.

Or you can listen to the article here:

To reach the wild, famous Canadian Rockies from the west, one must drive Canada’s winding Highway 1 through Rogers Pass.

I’ve attempted this road in the middle of a snow storm when I couldn’t see a metre in front of the windscreen (I stopped in some degree of panic to wait it out). It’s a glorious but terrifying stretch, full of avalanche paths in winter, blind corners, and semi trailers that have the nerve to pass you at ungodly speeds. Somehow this is Canada’s primary route for industrial and commercial needs from east to west. I’m obviously not an engineer, but building this type of road borders the impossible.1

I’m surely not the first person to write about this experience. It’s nothing new. But somehow the views exposed from the Pass through to the Rockies feel new each time.

Often dense with fog, when the knife’s edge of a mountain slices through the mist, it’s a marvellous sight. A bluebird sunny day is just as special as the moody palette that sprays the scene in fall or early spring. The way glaciers are visible from afar, and their milky rivers pulse through the various valleys, forever shaping the landscape and providing a life source to so many species. The spellbinding azure lakes. The endless spruce and cedar forests, the wildflowers blooming in summer. That with every twist and turn you’re in the shadow of more superlative peaks and you’re craning your neck to try and sink it all in.

These mountain ranges - the Canadian Rockies and Kananaskis Country which we are on our way to visit - have been the traditional and ancestral territories of many First Nations and Métis peoples2 for millennia. And they’ve been a source of exploration, obsession, and exploitation for the global population since.

I am but a speck of the volume of folks to tread here and be transformed by this place.3 To pass through and experience these lands is a privilege, and I write these words with immense gratitude.

Finding calm among the crowds

We’re arriving into the Canadian Rockies in peak summer. School holidays are in full swing. And seemingly every person on vacation in Canada has come to the same place. We’re adding to the onslaught! Outside of Niagara Falls, Banff and Jasper National Parks are probably the country’s most well known natural attractions.

I get it, Banff is the oldest national park in Canada, and has reaped a distinct and longstanding marketing campaign to bring in visitors. Last year during my stint working for Parks Canada at Mount Revelstoke, I got an insight into the volume of folks travelling to the Rockies. When the Jasper wildfires hit and the national park and town sadly closed, we were suddenly bombarded with redirected visitors every single day of the summer.

So I was expecting our time in this region to be totally overwhelming. We actively avoid some spots like Lake Louise. But I have come to understand that there are hundreds of places in Canada’s west alone that offer the kind of spectacular beauty that the likes of Lake Louise and Banff do. And even in this region you can fairly easily escape the crowds if you have the ambition and physical ability to do so.4 Failing that, arrive early or late in the day for your best chance at some peace.5

After spending a few days with the family at Yoho and Johnston Canyon / Banff, we manage to wing another 10 days in the Rockies and Kananasksis with first-come-first-served campsites and a very appreciated discount from a relative to stay at Banff’s Sunshine Village, the mountain resort about 20 minutes from town.

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Here are some highlights of our time in the Rockies and Kananaskis:

• Yoho National Park, British Columbia

You have to drive through Yoho to pass between Lake Louise and Golden, so it’s not unknown. Most people stop for the ephemeral Emerald Lake and the gigantic Takakkaw Falls, both mesmerising in their own right.

But stroll just beyond the lake’s entrance, bypass that enormous line of people waiting to rent a canoe for $100 per hour, and you’ll soon lose the masses. On both of my visits, we circumnavigate the lake, a gentle 5km circuit. The slopes which rise next to it houses fossils that are estimated to be over 505 million years old, the Burgess Shale, which can be seen up close through guided hikes.

Meanwhile, Takakkaw Falls is the entry point to the park’s longer hikes. Last September, we completed the Whaleback Trail as an overnighter. The diversity of terrain in this 20.5km circuit is insane - it traverses the valley floor passing the Yoho River, then takes a steep climb up to view the myriad glaciers that feed this incredible ecosystem and stand at the mouth of the 180-metre tall Twin Falls. All before reaching an open plateau that offers a birds eye of the entire valley from every direction.

• Peter Lougheed Provincial Park, Kananaskis Country, Alberta

Kananaskis Country is a huge protected area connected to the eastern side of the Rockies, that encapsulates five provincial parks, four wildland provincial parks and an ecological reserve. The zone lies between Canmore and Calgary in Alberta, and it transitions from towering, angular peaks to low rolling hills, dense with significant plant and wildlife species. Here we see the highest volume of bears we’ve seen in all of our time in Canada - many grizzlies, including some cubs, and a handful of black bears.

In the midst of a very rainy week in July, we pitch our tent in one of the smaller campgrounds in the Park. One black bear stumbles a few metres from our tent. On a quieter day, another grizzly advances pretty far into the campground. The park operator yells from his buggy and Callum runs to the car and starts honking the horn so the bear might scare off. I keep my bear spray very close. Eventually, she saunters off.

A few of the high mountain trails are closed due to bear activity, so we meander around Upper Kananasksis Lake as far as we can go. Some folks are fishing, others paddling on the water. We take a dip and lie down in the rare patch of sunshine we’ve had these past few days. By afternoon we play scrabble at our camp, looking out at the sheer rockface in view. Simple. Heaven.

• Spray Valley, Kananaskis Country, Alberta

Instead of a backcountry Jasper trek, we meet up with two mates to do an overnight hike to Ribbon Creek Falls in Spray Valley, which is adjacent to Peter Lougheed.

The hike takes us steadily up the valley, tracing Ribbon Creek until we meet the misty spray of the falls. Then it’s a steep ascent to the headwall, a vertical rock face that invites us to climb some ladders and metal ropes in order to reach the campsite two kilometres up the trail at Ribbon Lake. The sky is hazy today so it’s difficult to make out the immense drop between the mountains and the creek, but I know not to look down.

The lake greets us like a mirror, and campfire conversations warm us at the end of the day. We wake up to snow on our tent (remember its the middle of July!!), we almost lose the trail at the mountain pass, but eventually make it down the scrambled rock path past Lillian Lake, intermittent rain on our backs. Lesson learned: be prepared for all weather no matter the season.

These are just a few examples of a region that would take a lifetime to experience. In just two weeks I became acutely aware that you don’t need to go to the most popular tracks or viewpoints to understand its beauty. It’s simply impossible to try and fit it all in anyway.

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Being now on the other side of the world, all these are far from view. But the day we pass through Revelstoke on our road trip is a glimpse of such a day. We’d visited the Halfway Hot Springs near Nakusp earlier that day, and arrive in the middle of a still, brilliant afternoon. Down a dirt road to the north of town, a string of cars are parked up. Their drivers have all strolled down to the water’s edge at Lake Revelstoke, where a wooden pontoon with a ladder structure on the end has been thrown together by someone, some time, seemingly purpose-made for days like these. Dozens of people are milling on the pontoon or floating on the water.

My beautiful friend Alice Hill, a chef with a flair for zesty, approachable fine dining using farm-sourced ingredients, has prepped a spread of Middle Eastern salads, kofta, dips and focaccia for the masses. A few of her mates have set up gazebos to share and sell their art works, bucket hats and tees, and to play music. Someone instigates a diving competition off the dock. Instant vibes.

In the background of this epitomising summer scene rises Mt Begbie, it’s glacial facade gleaming in the July sunshine. I’ve only been out of town a few months, but I seriously missed this view.

It’s a fleeting moment. I sadly can’t stay long. But it’s such a sweet reminder of all the summers before and a bidding for all the summers to come.

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How does this compare to an ideal summer’s day for you? How does it look where you’re from?

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For the next few posts, I’ll take you back through summer in Canada. We road-tripped with part of Callum’s family through southern British Columbia, the BC interior mountains and the Canadian Rockies across two weeks, then continued just the two of us to northern BC, Yukon and the BC coast over three months.

When you think of British Columbia, the mind quickly conjures dramatic mountain peaks, snow and glaciers, interminable lakes and dripping rainforests. You’re unlikely to think of the desert. Or at least, I certainly didn’t. But down in the Okanagan region on the southern border of Canada that meets Washington state, there’s a “pocket desert”: a semi-arid shrub and grassland. A completely unique ecosystem for this country. You’ll find it in Osoyoos.

Part 1: Osoyoos

We depart Vancouver and head east, where it’s all bumper traffic and rezoned agricultural land. Then gradually, travelling through the Lower Fraser River catchment between Abbotsford and the town of Hope, mountains and valleys start to take shape. The roads become windier, and soon we’re driving over a dramatic pass on the Crowsnest Highway as we head towards Osoyoos.

Our first stop is EC Manning Provincial Park for the summer’s first lake swim.

As we approach Osoyoos, the verdant landscape turns into all shades of brown, the earth enveloping us in it’s dry desert glory. Native blue bunch wheatgrass, pine grass and antelope bush cover the hills. As does big sagebrush, which has grey green branches and reminds me somewhat of the native saltbush back in Australia’s desert scapes. There are barely any trees but the shrubs provide much needed shelter and sustenance for the fauna like bobcats and Nuttal’s cottontail rabbits. Some of the species, such as the native brittle prickly pear, are found no where else in Canada.

This is the traditional territory of the Syilx Okanagan Nation, who’s land spans an enormous area from modern day north-central Washington state in the US, into much of the south-central interior of BC.

About 10 minutes away from town on the western side, the arid scapes are interrupted by a fascinating constellation of colourful pools dipping into the hills. Known as kłlilx’w to the Sylix, meaning “sacred place”, the lake is revered for its healing properties and has been culturally and spiritually significant for centuries. Otherwise called Spotted Lake, this geological marvel is so rich in minerals that as the sun evaporates the lake’s water throughout the summer, hundreds of small pools are formed in a multicolour palette that shifts throughout the seasons. On the day we pass and view them from the road (entry is prohibited for conservation and cultural reasons), they’re all sage, mint, amber and milk.

Introduced species are here too; as the region is lauded for its fruit and wine. Neat rows of orchard trees and grapevines lie manicured across the rolling hills.

We’ve arrived into the height of summer. A 38 degree celsius day begs us to stop at one of the myriad fruit markets as we approach town. We reach for big boxes of incredible peaches, apricots, blackberries, blueberries, haskap berries, and plump cherries that rival those of central west NSW (sorry dad). The fruit season here in BC is short, but my word, it is so bloody good.

My one-year-old niece, who’s along for the road trip, basically lives off berries so is as stoked with this outcome as we are. My partner Cal had spent much of our time in Alaska picking ripe salmon berries, blackberries and blueberries off bushes lining the roads and public trails, feeding them to Kaia one by one. It is such a simple joy to be able to forage as you walk.

Alongside an overconsumption of fresh fruit, water-based activities seem to relieve the masses here. It’s the start of summer school holidays so the Osoyoos lake and pool at our accommodation are flooded with children in the early morning heat. We join them before heading out to taste some local wines; then jump in the car to drive to Nelson.

Part 2: Nelson

I’ve written about Nelson before, back in March when we visited to experience the skiing and the charm of the town in early spring. In the peak of summer, the lakeside park and beach is buzzing with people, teenagers playing beach volleyball, kids riding scooters. Yet the town still feels oddly relaxed. It’s still remarkable to me just how much Canadians savour the outdoors, especially in summer. Present any opportunity to be outside and soaking up sun, they’re taking it. Whether its taking over the leafy courtyard at Oso Negro cafe, or plonking down over a few cold pints after a day of biking on the patio at Torchlight brewery, the inside of any establishment is rarely full.

I venture up to ride a little section of the Great Northern Rail Trail, a pathway that rises high above the town and traverses 48km to the village of Salmo. We’re short on time this trip, but this area is so full of adventure activities, you could easily spend a week or more exploring the trails, mountains and lakes by foot, bike or boat.

We did go back to Red Light Ramen - I’m still fantasising about it honestly - but found a few more gems in Nelson this time around, too.

Veer back to:

• Moon Curser Vineyards, Osoyoos - beautiful vineyard overlooking the town with wines that really represent the flavours of Okanagan wine, including a richly bodied Syrah. Special mention also to Scout Vineyard and Ursa Major Winery, who are makers of minimal intervention wines with sustainable practices. Both operate in the nearby Similkameen Valley, but don’t have cellar doors.

• Baba Kabab, Christina Lake - Very nice felafel and beef wraps, perfect for a stopover lunch. Owned by a Palestinian refugee Othman Hamdan, who went through Immigration Detention in Canada. Stay a while at the sheltered food truck for a long yarn with Othman, or take the wraps down to Christina Lake for a picnic.

  

• Gina’s Gelato, Nelson - exceptional handmade gelato in an art-deco inspired shop. The raspberry was divine, the waffle cone had perfect crunch.

• Charcuterie Totoche, Nelson - Cute as corner spot that does crispy French baguettes with authentic, fresh fillings. Ok I am vegetarian, so the soft brie, caramelised onion and lettuce sandwich was my pick, but their charcuterie does also look banging.

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It’s an exceptionally calm evening, and from atop our vessel that idles a couple hundred metres from the densely forested cliff, the open air is crisp on the few inches of my face left exposed. Its midsummer here in Alaska (not the warm kind of summer) around 10pm. We’re surrounded from all angles by snowcapped mountains on the distant horizon.

We’re not here for the lighthouse, though the scene is peaceful on it’s own. We’re searching for signs of movement in the water. We wait, abated breath.

Eventually a raised blue-grey hump emerges from the surface, releasing a spurt of oxygen from its blowhole. Then comes another one, then another. A whole pod of humpbacks!

From the opposite direction at the bough of the boat, another juvenile whale comes into view. Suddenly we’re darting our heads back and forth, not knowing where exactly to look but feeling something more is coming.

The water trembles just below the surface. Then the pod of at least ten whales all burst head-first out of the water, enormous mouths open and baleen everywhere, before collapsing back into their waves. If there was an orchestra playing, this is the crescendo, when cymbals clang.

My heart is pumping, there is a universal squeal and clap of excitement from the dozen or so of us on deck. We’ve all just witnessed something incredible. “Oh my god” Callum says to me, and pulls me tight, both of us grinning. This is unadulterated elation. Soon the whales reemerge, flipping and splashing about, releasing more water and sounds like satisfied burps.

What on earth is bubble-net feeding?

What we witnessed is called bubble-net feeding. A little naive, I’d only heard about this cooperative hunting style earlier that day, while reading a short book on whales in the lounge room of our 40-passenger cruise boat. It read something like: This unique and rare form of feeding is only performed by humpback whales in Southeast Alaska. Optimum viewing opportunities are in late summer.

Our captain Eric Morrow says its unheard of to have seven days of good weather in southeast Alaska. “Throughout this week we’ll see some humpback whales, for sure,” he said when we board, “and maybe Orca. If we’re lucky.”

By lunch time on day two, we’ve sighted both performing all sorts of moves. Combine that with this completely motionless, clear evening where the late summer sun casts romantic gold and pink stripes across the sky, as we witness a group of the planet’s most mysterious creatures coming together to feast. I never expected our circumstances or timing could be so perfect. I notice tears forming in my eyes.

In the nights that follow, we see this feeding phenomenon again and again.

We can’t really see what’s happening underwater, but thanks to a hydrophone dropped into the water by the ship’s crew, we can hear it. The ritual is as musical as I imagined. A few faint warbling sounds signal the team assembling. The humpbacks circle their pray in the water, releasing bubbles to form a sort of impenetrable curtain that disorient and trap the fish. Then the matriarch calls the cue - a deep reverberating honk - and the hunt ensues: all the whales swim simultaneously upward with their mouths open to feed on the fish. Repeat until bellies are full.

The great return of humpbacks

We live in a time when humpback whales are revered. The Animal Welfare Institute estimates that 13 million people across 100 countries go whale watching each year. But this hasn’t always been the case. While onboard the ship, we learn the population of humpbacks here in the Salish Sea severely declined in the early 20th century due to industrial whaling practices; which became pre-eminent in 19th century North America. The BBC reports less than 1,000 whales remained in 1986, though the previous century there were about 15 times that number.

But in recent years, despite warming oceans and diminishing food sources, humpbacks have become prolific again and are no longer endangered, with over 20,000 mammals in the North Pacific. Between 3,000-5,000 migrate every year between Alaska and Hawai’i. We learn that every year the young males produce a single new song, which can travel thousands of kilometres.

Is it just me or are we all blown away by these stats?

As I learn on this boat trip and throughout my road trip across British Columbia this summer, whales have been blowing humans away for an exceptionally long time.

Coastal peoples have revered whales for millennia

Here in the Pacific Northwest, whales are integral to the culture of indigenous coastal tribal communities, with whaling practices dating back thousands of years for spiritual, economic, political and cultural reasons. For the Tsimshian and Tlingit tribes, the latter who’s territory we visit at the first-class city of Kake in southeast Alaska, orca (aka. killer whales or blackfish) are a special protector of humankind and are a clan animal. Orcas are considered a particular symbol of power and strength, and catching sight of one is considered a momentous omen.

For the Haida nation, the killer whale symbol is often observed in art and on poles. They’re believed to be powerful, supernatural beings, and were never hunted. On Haida Gwaii, we see an impressive humpback whale sculpture by artist Lon Sharp in the village of Daajing Gi’ids. It states that the humpback is believed to have risen from primordial tide pools to roam for aeons along shorelines before returning to the sea.

In Hawai’i, the humpback whale (koholā) is believed to be a manifestation of Kanaloa, the god of the ocean, and is said to be responsible for helping the Polynesians discover the Hawaiian Islands. It’s a symbol of authority and of life. Native Hawaiian Solomon Pili Kahoʻohalahala said in a 2020 presentation with NOAA that we’re reminded of life through the breath of the humpback whale. He says, “Kanaloa exemplifies this miraculous strength and power,” and teaches us about strength and an inexplicable, unseeable spirit.

Back home in so-called Australia, whales are similarly seen as ‘ancestors of the sea’ to the First Peoples, their cultural significance represented in Dreamtime lore, songs and ceremonies. WWF shares as an example that on Yuin Country (New South Wales’ south coast), orcas are understood as reincarnations of whalers or warriors who passed away, and continue to provide and care for Yuin people even in death.

Now I do not in any way claim to have this type of ancient, intergenerational and spiritual connection to whales, but I feel there is something to be learned from indigenous understandings of these almost mythical beings. Across many language groups, whales play a major role in explaining how and why we’re here.

In some ways, they really do. Ancestors of humpbacks are proven to have been land animals at some point, over 50 million years ago. Nowadays, scientists are even trying to communicate with whales through sound and song.

You cannot manufacture a whale sighting.

But to catch even a glimpse — the flicker of a fluke, the flip of a fin, or the sigh of breath released — is to be deeply moved and left feeling that being connected to nature might just be the true meaning of life.

All images are captured by me, Emily Barlow, unless otherwise stated.

Back in April this year, I travelled back to Australia for six weeks. The occasion was to celebrate my brother’s wedding but it ended up being filled with many wonderful celebrations: friends marrying, friends having babies, friends having birthdays, and more. I’d spent 18 months away, a period of time where so many things seemed to change, some were seismic shifts and some were more nuanced, so goes the gradual evolution of life. The common thread is they were changes I could only witness through video calls, pictures, Instagram posts and sporadic catch-up conversations. Involved yet somehow removed.

These are the things that don’t often get mentioned in travel writing. How you can be so immersed in and overjoyed by the experiences you’re having, yet feel a sense of guilt, or grief, about missing the big - and small - moments in the lives of those you love most.

I scribbled a draft of a poem one day in Sydney while I was trying to process all the deep emotions I was feeling: nourished from seeing my family and friends, comforted by the sounds and smells around me, a sadness for being absent. And this weird sensation of being there fully, like I’d never left, but somehow not quite. The sentiment has been sitting with me since and I’ve been completely buoyed by it. What a privilege to have something so good to miss.

Now I think I’m ready to share it. So, all is to say, a slight shift for today’s post.

Thank you as always for being here,

Em

Remembering

you take the train

anticipating, a deep craving

longing

to be hugged, both at once

sister and mother

squealing, rushing, flapping

when you arrive

sounds of familiarity, ease

everyone talking at once

cacophony of voices

children dashing, 

delighted

begging to play

while newborns sweet,

fragile, adoring

turn friends into caregivers

you watch, humbled and in awe

scent of eucalyptus, palms and figs

kookaburra cawing on a branch

bare feet on sand

clingy, soft 

touch it, sift the minutiae 

through your hands

ocean breeze tingles

on wet, salty skin

tender meals cooked by hand

tea cups clink

as you unfurl on the couch

weeping, laughing

trying to fill the gaps of space and time

with talking, remembering

all the things you love

about home

At around 30 kilometres long, Huayhuash is more compact than the behemoth 130-kilometre-long Cordillera Blanca which dominates the region to the north. Blanca is home to Huascarán, Peru’s tallest mountain with peaks rising up like stiff meringue. But the terrain in Huayhuash is more remote and just as extreme, with seven peaks that come in just behind Huascarán’s whopping 6,768 metres above sea level.

Huayhuash is normally accessed by a many-hours bus journey from the city of Huaraz. But our arrival trip from Huánuco Pampa doubles in length because a landslide that morning blocked off the closer route. It’s a common story here. Already we circumnavigated a slide on foot during the North Great Inca Trail which had collapsed the road; and we’ve learned about the major 1970 Huascarán avalanche and landslide that destroyed the entire valley town of Yungay and killed 30,000 people. Now try not to think about that too much as the bus winds its way up rocky hairpin bends!

Our group is dropped at Rondoy on the northern side of the mountain range, to experience two days of trekking these landscapes; usually taken on as an 8-12 day, 135km circuit.

While the North Great Inca Trail (which I wrote about in my last post) was wow for its insight into history and culture and ancient archaeological sites, Huayhuash is wow on a whole different level. Here, the limestone, sandstone and slate peaks are looming almost directly above you, the terrain you climb is undoubtedly more steep, the footsteps taken up to the 4,750m high passes feel ever more interminable.

“Guacamole!”

That’s our guide Virgilio Maguiña as we arrive at every new vantage point, a cheeky grin on his face. His exclamation is far more PC than my “holy shit!”, but the sentiment is the same. Mt Rondoy is facing us. In its flank are sheer vertical rock faces, iced over with snow that looks like frosting leaking over the side of a never-ending cake. A clear cornice traces the sharp ridge line, pipes of white drizzling below.

As we take in the scene, a thunderous crack echoes, then a sheet of ice breaks away from a glacier, avalanching swiftly down the crevice. I lose sight of where it reaches the valley floor.

Along the walk, I’m asking our second guide, a Quechuan man named Julio about the native wildflowers, something he is quietly passionate about. We see wish cash** (part of the aster family) — gorgeous yellow flowers on a sage-coloured shrub — as well as white onion flowers and puka maque, a magenta red trumpet flower endemic to the highlands. A full garden of waqur kasha grows at higher elevations. This one is a small cactus plant that grows in bunches and looks laden in cotton wool. I cannot get enough of these little plant clusters huddled together, like a community with linked arms whispering to each other, “would you get a load of this view?”

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Later, after a peaceful lunch of hot ahi de guyina (Andean curry) overlooking a basin stained with iron oxide, we climb to our final pass of the day. The large turquoise Jauacocha Lake beckons far below; and the sun gives way to mist that swirls and enshrouds the valley. A condor soars menacingly overhead. The dark vulture is Peru’s largest bird, whose wingspan can extend up to 3.3 metres. Suddenly the mountains are more ominous than romantic.

The rain pummels as we start the descent down a steep switchback trail to make camp at the lake’s far end. I’m a seasoned hiker and just spent two winters in Canada, and I have to say I felt a little unprepared out here. I’ve never been more grateful for a $2 poncho, purchased at the last minute after a soaking wet acclimatisation hike in Huascarán. My decade-old raincoat was not going to cut it.

Farming and recreation in Huayhuash

Huayhuash is an interesting area. In 2002, the government recognised it for its phenomenal natural beauty and unique landscapes as a Reserved Zone and Key Biodiversity Area. But a community-led model sees nine different local communities managing the land they own, rather than the government, meaning any income from permits and tourism goes directly to them. Maguiña tells us that in Rondoy Valley where we started our walk, locals don’t allow camping because the area is used for farming and they want the grass to grow healthily for dairy cows.

He also mentions some challenges: Santa Luisa mine operates in the region, but any new future mining initiatives have now been restricted. He notes that on one hand, if it became more formally protected like a national park, the farming would become restricted and therefore impact livelihoods, but on the other hand the communities could receive funding as well as extra resources like radios to be able to communicate better with each other across the impossible mountain passes.

There’s some joy in not doing it all yourself

When we reach our camp, there’s no allotment or pre-booking system, even among the tour operators who lead trips out here. It’s totally first-in, best-dressed. Dozens of tents line the outskirts of the lake, and its still very early in the hiking season. I imagine it becomes difficult for tour operators to promise a private, uninterrupted experience to their guests in peak season. But with a fleet of llamas, donkeys and local donkey drivers and chefs racing ahead to set up camp for us in the rain, ensuring we have hot tea and snacks upon arrival, they can certainly deliver comfort when you’re feeling tired and cold, feet soaked in a mix of mud and cow dung.

For the first time, I’m beginning to see the appeal of a supported trek led by locals, rather than trying to do it all yourself. It goes against my usual (and I think a lot of Australians) do-it-yourself mentality when it comes to the outdoors. Besides the deeply challenging nature of the terrain (navigational and some mountaineering skills are definitely required to go it alone), in this case, a group of twelve visitors means just as many local staff are hired, including the bus drivers, hotel operators for pre and post-hike and remote office staff.

In turn we receive a safe journey, incredible Peruvian food, and insider knowledge of place provided by guides who have lived and walked these lands for decades.

And when you’re woken up at 6am with a hot cup of coffee, and a view like this, not even the thought of donning your muddy boots can shake you.

I travelled to Huayhuash with Explorandes. Exploreshare is another good platform for finding local guides.

** Note that Quechua is traditionally an oral language, so any spelling is phonetic and may vary depending on the source. The spelling I have used here was provided by my guide, Julio :)