Paul and I are Livin’ la Vida Loca! Seeking warmth and adventure, we escaped the worst of our Canadian winter in early January. Nineteen hours of travel took us from snowy Toronto to sunny Puerto Varas, Chile, where volcanoes loomed over glistening lakes and the Southern Hemisphere summer was in full bloom.

Our first flight, from Toronto to Santiago, was delayed and we did not take off until 12:30 am.  I despise middle-of-the-night departure times, and I was about to turn into a pumpkin. With eye mask on and food declined, I was asleep before we reached cruising altitude. Paul, meanwhile, was indulging in all of the offerings of business class, as he always does. Our brief Dry January flashed before his eyes like a distant memory as we headed toward to one of the world’s best wine regions.

The 90-minute Latam Airlines flight from Santiago to Puerto Montt became our introduction to Chilean hospitality. Once the cabin door closed, the head flight attendant took centre stage commanding the attention of the mostly Spanish-speaking passengers. With exuberance, she asked questions, with passengers raising their hands in response; she told jokes and stories with such energy that the entire cabin leaned in and laughed out loud. When she finished, the applause was immediate and genuine.  We had no idea what she said, yet by the end, we were beaming from the warmth of the experience.

We arrived at our Puerto Varas hotel, the Wyndham Puerto Varas Pettra, and settled into our room while taking in the postcard views of the lake.  At 8 pm, savouring our first bites of ceviche and empanadas, the sun was still shining. We raised glasses of Chilean Chardonnay while watching families and dogs strolling on the boardwalk below. At the far end of Lake Llanquihue, 45 km in the distance, snow-capped volcanoes, Osorno, Calbuco and Tronador peeked through the clouds. In that magical moment, we understood why we’d travelled all this way.

Before any group trip, we give ourselves a day to decompress following a long day of travel. After a solid sleep, we dressed and headed out. The main road along Lake Llanquihue was closed to traffic- a Sunday summer tradition in Chilean towns so locals and visitors have the waterfront to themselves. That’s where we stumbled upon an aerobics class led by the national fitness authority. Of course, I jumped in. Later, we ducked into Café Micelio, following the hotel concierge’s recommendation. The lattes were exactly what we needed to shake the jetlag. By afternoon, we’d climbed to Parque Philippi’s highest point, taken in the views, and shared lunch at Santo Fuego—a family-filled spot that felt authentically Chilean. Seventeen thousand steps later, rain was falling and we headed back to the hotel. After a delicious dinner at Casa Valdes and a final walk along the waterfront, we collapsed into bed, excited to meet our group bright and early the next morning.

Group travel holds a particular magic for Paul and me. We love the energy of capable leaders who reveal hidden corners of the world. There is the spark of strangers becoming friends over shared kilometres. We enjoy the conversations that drift from home to politics to travel dreams. But standing in the hotel lobby on day one, surrounded by people I’d just met, I felt that familiar flutter: Will we click? Will these be our people? After seven days of cycling, breaking bread and sipping Chilean wine together, I can report with certainty—this was our best group yet. We hadn’t just found companions- we’d found kindred spirits.

Our group of 17 included just Paul and me from Canada; the rest were American. We had two Backroads guides- Geoffrey from France and Borja from Spain- and a local Chilean support crew of four. Our transportation was three large vans- two outfitted with bike trailers, and one trailer for luggage. Wherever we pulled in, we drew attention as we unloaded. On day two, we all purchased matching Chilean-themed cycling shirts from one of the local guides, which made us look like an actual cycling team.

After brief introductions and bike fittings, we were off. Paul and I had never ridden e-bikes before, but after reading about the extremely hilly terrain and learning that everyone else in the group (except one elite cyclist from Colorado) would be on e-bikes, we decided not to get left behind. We spent the first ride figuring out the settings- challenging each other to stay in ECO mode and work for our exercise. Yet, it was the TURBO button on steep inclines that changed everything. By day’s end, we’d kept pace with the group, felt genuinely challenged, and arrived back energized rather than destroyed. Will we choose e-bikes on every trip? Absolutely not. But on challenging routes such as this? Hell, yeah!

The scenery was mesmerizing. Lakeside roads opened to sparkling blue water, conical volcanic peaks, and rolling green hills. Thankfully, traffic was light, and most routes offered safe shoulders for cycling. Our group spread out, each of us setting our own pace. As usual, Paul and I stayed together, except on the steep downhills, when Paul let it rip and I cautiously applied the brakes. Our bikes came equipped with Wahoo GPS devices that guided us turn by turn and pinged indignantly whenever we pedalled off course. We were cycling through summer: cool mornings melting into warm, sun-soaked afternoons. The Canadian winter felt impossibly far away.

At lunch, we’d stopped at a dairy farm where I was tickled to handfeed a flock of clucking chickens and get close to a herd of curious Jersey cows. Over fresh manjar and local cheeses, we learned everyone’s names, and something shifted as we got to know one another. In the late afternoon, we arrived at our hotel, and the lake beckoned. A cold plunge into Lake Llanquihue was our reward after 35 kilometres of cycling on rolling terrain. Paul and I were amongst the first to jump in, the frigid water reminiscent of summer camp polar bear dips. Soothing massages in the spa worked out the kinks. That evening, we raised glasses of Chilean wine with our new friends, excited for the days ahead.

Our bike routes wound past snow-capped volcanoes, around glistening lakes, through lush forests, corn fields and pastures dotted with cows. The Backroads team thoughtfully positioned rest stops at scenic lookouts and tourist sites then refilled our water bottles, topped up our snacks, maintained our bikes and gave us encouragement, their actions reminding us that we could never do this on our own. Each morning we’d pedal hard, then pause at quaint coffee shops for hot lattes and kuchen, a local German pastry. The German influence was inescapable: wood-slate homes, rich beers and delicious cakes. Starting in the 1850s, 30,000 Germans arrived as part of a colonization program, and the German influence was everywhere.

Cultural experiences wove through our week. One afternoon, we ate lunch at an organic restaurant in the hills above Lago Ranco, sampling arrayan, murta, and maqui berries—and their juices. My tongue was stained pink for hours. One evening, we learned how to stuff and fold empanadas, sampled Chilean wines (Chardonnay, Carmenere and Pinot Noir), indulged in Pisco Sours, and danced to a local band’s live music. Before our toughest ride, we visited a Mapuche community leader who told us about her culture and taught us about the Pewan tree- the monkey puzzle tree, then offered us its roasted monkey puzzle nuts as fuel. By the end of each day, we’d collected not just memories but pieces of Chile itself.

We took countless selfies at waterfalls and viewpoints overlooking rushing rivers- every volcanic backdrop begged for another picture. And then came the “Wall of Pain,” a relentless hill with 18 % gradient, that seemed to never end. Our e-bikes carried us up what felt impossible, and we descended the other side giddy with relief. That toughest day had 4,200 feet of elevation gain. Our longest ride took us to the Argentina border and Mamuil Malal Pass in Villarica National Park. Over seven days we cycled 350 km through the foothills of the Andes.

Along the way we stayed in lovely hotels, and each revealed a different Chile. Hotel AWA sat on the shores of Lake Llanquihue, with Osorno Volcano rising just across the water from our room. The Futangue Hotel was a complete contrast—tucked within a private nature reserve near Lago Ranco, with trails winding through the property, fields of baled hay and sheep dotting the landscape. The head chef prepared our dinner on the massive indoor barbeque in the dining room, and the outdoor patio became our dance floor when a local group played. Our final stop was the &Beyond Vira Vira, near Pucon—an adventure playground for Chileans. Backroads added a surprise adventure- a short rafting excursion, arriving on the shores of Vira Vira after a full day of cycling.  We were exhausted and exhilarated. Our hotel room was spacious and elegant, with floor-to-ceiling views and enough space to finally unpack our jumbled suitcases. That evening, farm-to-table cuisine and the company of friends left us feeling content and enchanted.  We were so pleased with our decision, made months ago, to add two extra days at this beautiful hotel.

On day seven, our group cycled an up-and-back route, uphill to Caburgua Lake. The return trip was our reward, gliding downhill with glorious unobstructed views of Villarrica Volcano in the distance. Our time with our Backroads group had flown-by and we were sorry to say good-bye to our travel companions, with promises to stay in touch and meet up on future adventures. That afternoon, we took the opportunity to walk around the &Beyond Vira Vira property, indulge in relaxing massages, wade into the chilly Liucura River beside the hotel then soak in the steamy outdoor hot tub.

We had a full day on our own at Vira Vira and decided to fire-up our hiking muscles and give our saddle-sore butts a rest! The planned hike in a near-by national forest was cancelled due to concerns about forest fires burning in other parts of Chile. The hotel’s excursions team offered an alternative on a private estate beside the national park. With a local guide and another couple, we set off into a lush forest of massive unfamiliar trees, including many Monkey Puzzle Trees. We learned more about the official tree of Chile. This evergreen tree, also known as Pewen, is long living- some of the trees we were passing by on our hike could be over 1000 years old! For the record, there are no monkeys in Chile. We encountered two “black beauty” horses wandering freely, and I couldn’t resist stopping to pet one.  Stray dogs had been everywhere throughout our trip, but stray horses?! We hiked above the tree line to the highest point for another dose of volcanic views- they never got old. The sweltering afternoon brought a gentle rafting trip down the river- the water was only 9 C, too cold even for hardy Canadians.  As we floated along, Chilean families lined the banks: camping, kayaking, swimming- savouring their summer together. That evening, we happily reflected on our time in the Lakes District. Tomorrow, the Atacama Desert awaited.

We flew from Temuco to Santiago, then on to Calama.  We stared out of the van window as we shuttled to our hotel, Nayaya Alta, just outside of San Pedro. The landscape was otherworldly- windswept, barren, like Mars and the Moon had a baby.  The Atacama Desert is the highest and driest non-polar desert in the world. Paul felt the thin air of the high altitude immediately. I wasn’t bothered by the altitude but felt the desert’s assault: dry skin and intense sun that demanded constant sunscreen. This was the Atacama and it was going to challenge us in ways we hadn’t anticipated.

At the hotel, we met with the excursions concierge and planned our week around invigorating hikes.  Our first hike took us to Vilama-Devil’s Throat at 2,500 metres with a private guide and driver. The initial ascent was steep and tricky; I steadied myself with my hands, as we climbed. Our hearts pounded, our bodies still adjusting to the elevation. At the top, the rocky red canyon stretched beneath us- we could have been in Southern Utah or Arizona. The incredible views also took our breath away! We found petroglyphs, telling stories the indigenous people had etched into stone 1,500 years ago. The dry air was relentless: we sipped water constantly and diligently reapplied our sunscreen.

The next day, Rainbow Valley revealed itself on another private hike, this time with two guides and a driver, just for us. The rock formations glowed in the bright sun: red, green, white and turquoise. Clay, copper and salt deposits layered in stone, each colour a geological story our guide explained to us. We had chosen the extended hike that included a steep climb with tremendous views from the top- our hearts pounded and we paused often to catch our breath. Wild donkeys grazed nearby. Guanacos- (South American mammals that resemble a blend of deer and llamas) and a herd of llamas wandered through the valley below. And then, impossibly, I heard my name called out. It was a couple we’d befriended on our Backroads trip, hiking the same valley at the same moment. We laughed at the coincidence, snapped a picture together and made promises to travel together again. Midway through, our driver met us at the truck with lunch he’d brought from the hotel. Walking 10 kilometres through that surreal valley, surrounded by colourful rock formations and wildlife, this hike earned its place in our top ten- it truly was remarkable. We got back to the hotel just ahead of a big thunderstorm- so unusual in the driest place on Earth where the annual rainfall is measured in millimetres!

I joined a hiking group for the Cactus Hike in Guatin, along the Vilama River. Paul stayed back at the hotel, feeling the effects of altitude and a rich meal the night before. The group wore hard hats- the previous day’s storm had made the trails slippery, and the river crossings were trickier than anticipated. The cacti here grow only 1 centimetre a year, yet many were ancient- some over 1,000 years old, their distinctive arms reaching out for balance and some up to 10 metres in height They’re endangered now; their unique interior wood once made them valuable building material. The two couples in my group- economists from Scotland and American diplomats stationed in Colombia shared stories from their travels and their views on recent world events- the world felt smaller and more connected with each conversation. The morning was bright, the sky clear. But as we climbed the steep slope to the truck, breathing hard at 3,500 metres altitude, thunder rumbled in the distance- ominous and wrong in this desert where it never rained.

That afternoon, we rested in our room, anticipating our afternoon excursion to a lagoon where we’d float in turquoise salt water. We were looking forward to the days ahead when we would see geysers at sunrise, flamingos on salt flats and observe the brilliant starry night from an observatory. Thunder cracked overhead. Rain poured. Our excursion was cancelled. Then I stepped off the bed onto the floor- straight into 5 centimetres of water. Our room was flooding and we immediately called the front desk. Fifteen minutes later, we were packed and moved to a dry room, thankful for the quick actions of the hotel staff. Barely unpacked, there was an urgent knock at the door. The road into the hotel was underwater, the lobby was flooding and lines of communication were down- the hotel was under evacuation, now! Paul and I moved like contestants in The Amazing Race- throwing things into bags, not asking questions. By sheer coincidence, our good friends from home were staying at the Awasi Hotel- near-by and dry. We requested a transfer there and while other guests deliberated, we were at the front entrance, ready to move.

That evening with our friends at the Awasi Hotel felt like a gift- an unexpected reunion in the middle of a flood at a luxurious hotel on higher ground. A British couple evacuated alongside us joined our foursome for dinner, and we laughed and told stories like we’d known them for years. Two more days of thunderstorms were in the forecast. In the world’s driest place, it was wet and muddy- all attractions were closed, the roads of San Pedro were a mess and the road to the airport had temporarily closed overnight. The decision was simple: it was time to begin the long journey home. We landed in Toronto at 5:30 am the next day. Within hours, Ontario was buried under the largest snowstorm of the year- the flight we would have taken two days later was cancelled.

We travelled 9,500 km to Chile for adventure and to escape the Canadian winter. We returned home with magical stories of travel: cycling 350 kilometres through the Andean foothills, hiking magnificent landscapes, savouring Chilean wine and escaping a once-in-a-decade rainfall event. The winter was still waiting for us at home, but we were different. We carried the warmth of Chile home with us: the taste of maqui berries, empanadas and monkey puzzle nuts, the “Wall of Pain” conquered and a new appreciation for e-bikes, the glow of the vibrant Rainbow Valley and the kindred spirits we’d found along the way. Sometimes the best escapes aren’t from the cold. They’re to the people and places that remind us why we travel in the first place.