When I was younger (by a lot) I used to modify all my motorcycles. Different forks, different gas tanks, different wheels. I never left well enough alone. Until I bought a new, 1983 Honda XL600, I only had a few stock bikes. The XL600 was so good it started me thinking about why I kept messing with original bikes. And so I stopped.
I found the reason why the kickstart splines slip. The lever knuckle is cracked allowed the splines to expand when kicking. Luckily the spare engine has the part.
I pretty much leave motorcycles stock now. It’s a lot easier and quieter. Let’s face it: The bikes are more reliable stock. Reliability is important to me now. Along with resale value.
I’ve been polishing the turd a bit. The aluminum color is too bright, I’ll try something else but the bike should clean up and look decent.
Lately, the Dream 305 decision tree has branched off in a different direction. Getting the bike running was exciting but figuring out how to proceed has not been. What to do with this beast? If the engine was bad things would be easy: Part it out. But the engine is not bad.
The main issue is the low value of restored Dreams. A couple thousand bucks will get you a nice rider that needs nothing. My ’62 is an early model that has some cachet, but not enough to make much difference.
I was going to leave the bike rough and stock, just get it operational, but deep down, I don’t like the way a Dream looks. The engine is fine. I like the close-set fins, but It’s those fender flares. They make the bike look stodgy and old.
Front brake shoes are cheap and available for the Dream but rear shoes have a different mounting set up. At $38 each shoe I’ll be running the old ones. Hopefully the lining stays glued on and doesn’t come loose and lock up the wheel.
I’ll be the first guy to tell you don’t modify old bikes because it lessens interest and value, but what if the bike has little value to start with? I’ve decided the flares have to go. Kind of a return to my roots on a bike that isn’t in great shape.
The rear rim is in fairly good shape, and the new Kenda fit will. Neither of the front rims are very good. They are round and straight, but the chrome is shot. As this is a budget build, I may try some chrome spray paint just to get the bike on the road.
Hear me out: Modding this bike is not a big deal as I have a bit of metalworking to do on the Dream’s sheet metal frame and have decided to take the bike completely apart to allow easy access and flat welding.
The Dream has been down sometime in the last 60 years. I’ve tweaked the front fender straight-ish. A little welding and trimming will make it usable.The taillight area is kind of a mess. I’ll use the flare cut-off to supply original sheet metal when I plug this hole.
The front fender has a crack and the flare is bent; it will need some massaging and removing the flare removes one problem. The rear fender has a gaping hole where the taillight sat, and I’ll be welding that closed. There are a few dents that would be easier to beat out with the frame upside down. The bike won’t be original, but it won’t be far off original. And most importantly, I’ll like the way it looks. I’m shallow that way.
These square shocks are iconic Dream bits. No longer held to a high standard, I won’t be looking to replace the eroded plastic covers.
Things are hopping at the ranch, so I have made little progress (but not zero progress). Just having clarity, freedom and a plan saves on lateral moves.
I thought I’d read everything that had ever been published about traveling the world on a motorcycle. I’ve written about it on ExNotes, describing my favorites among all the books on this topic.
Notice that I’m writing in the past tense, and the reason for that is I most recently learned about another motorcycle saga that belongs on my best-in-class list: Going the Wrong Way, by Chris Donaldson.
My newfound discovery came about almost by accident a few days ago when I visited with Moto Guzzi Classics, an independent Guzzi revival and maintenance facility in Signal Hill, California for a potential story I’m doing for the ExNotes blog and maybe one of the motorcycle magazines. The guys who run Moto Guzzi Classics are, in as few words as possible, both a bit eccentric and absolute subject matter experts. One of them, my new good buddy Wyatt, showed a few of the bikes in their shop to me, and one of those motorcycles belongs to Chris Donaldson. Chris is a Belfast boy (as in Belfast, Ireland) who is going around the around on a Moto Guzzi 850 Le Mans.
Man, there’s a lot to unpack in that last sentence. Belfast. Coming of age during The Troubles. Getting out of Ireland as a young man. Moto Guzzi, which has to be one of the coolest motorcycles on the planet (they’re like Harleys, but for people who like motorcycles). The Le Mans 850, which has to be one of the worst motorcycles in the world for world travel. Traveling the world (as in present tense). That’s right, the journey is not over, even though Mr. Donaldson started it many decades ago. Donaldson plans to continue his global conquest on the same motorcycle, which is one of the reasons why the bike you see here is currently in the queue at Moto Guzzi Classics in Signal Hill.
I’ve had a hard time putting the Going the Wrong Way down on my nightstand each night for the last several nights. I’d read until I couldn’t stay awake, and fall asleep reading it. Don’t get me wrong; the book is anything but boring. Just the opposite is true. It’s fabulous, and even though I couldn’t keep my eyes open because I was reading into the wee hours, I couldn’t stop reading. Going the Wrong Way has all the bike reliability stuff to keep an engineer interested, all the philosophical stuff to keep a philosopher awake, all the people stuff to keep a people person awake, all the border crossing drama stuff to keep a world traveler tuned in, and, well, I could go on, but I don’t want to spoil it for you. The writing is almost poetic. It’s that good.
Folks, Going the Wrong Way is a great read. Don’t just take my word for it; there are something like 1,394 Amazon reviews posted on this book (soon to be 1,395, when I write mine), which is really kind of stunning for a motorcycle travel book written by a rider with no sponsors. Trust me on this: Get yourself a copy of Going the Wrong Way. You can thank me later.
Our other book reviews (along with reviews on a lot of other things) are here.
After scuba diving and a relaxing month living in Ao Nang, Thailand, I was becoming too comfortable and thought it was time to move north to experience Chiang Mai and its temples and sights near the Laos border. I didn’t have much of an itinerary, but I had met a pretty cool French guy who highly recommended a Buddhist meditation retreat called Pa-Pae. It was about an hour’s bus ride north of Chiang Mai. Having never experienced meditation before, this seemed like a great opportunity.
I was surprised at how well organized the retreat was. It was adjacent to a small village with its own store and a local restaurants, but otherwise this retreat was in its own world separated from everything else. This was the perfect location to practice meditation. Wanting to experience this retreat even deeper I chose to perform a fast (water only) and not speak throughout the four days (the silence was the world’s loss for the four days).
Once settled into my little cabin on the mountainside and changing into the white pants and shirts they provided, it was time to relax until the evening meditation class. The class would cover the basics of meditation in an attempt for me to clear my mind (never an easy task) and try to find some peace within myself. Meditation isn’t easy for me. It took a lot of work to focus on a mantra or an object within my mind and remove all the static from the outside world.
With there being three meditation classes daily and without speaking, I was able to silence my mind, if only for a few moments each class. In between the meditation classes there were monks who would share their illuminating life stories and also provide answers to the many questions we first timers had. With not being able to speak, the question-and-answer sessions were my only source of social activity.
Our final meditation ceremony was held around a fire pit. This is where I almost broke my silence as the wood for the fire was quite wet (we were in a rainforest, after all) and I had an extremely difficult time pantomiming “get some gasoline to get this fire going!” I did finally manage, though, and the fire was lit. When that evening’s meditation ended, we lit paper lanterns to release into the sky. My lantern in the photo is the one stuck in the tree. Slip away!
Upon leaving I felt refreshed, rested, and almost ready for the next part of my adventure. I successfully completed the classes, my fast, and even my 92-hour silence. Later that evening I celebrated by stuffing my face with some Pad Thai and talking with my mouth full. My next retreat should be one that involves learning proper manners.
Well, maybe it’s three. A little while ago I wrote about a custom Bowie knife good buddy Paul crafted for me. That knife was a surprise gift, I like it a lot, and it fit in nicely with the rest of my collection.
A surprise gift from good buddy Paul: A custom Bowie knife.
Paul then sent a photo of a curly maple Bowie he made for himself, and I liked it so much I offered to buy it. Not so fast, Paul said. He’s keeping that one, but he offered to make another one just like it for me. One thing led to another, and I decided to go ahead with the curly maple Bowie. And then I decided to get yet another Bowie, this time with a white Micarta handle. Paul told me about a block of Micarta he’s had for 40 years, and he thought it would do nicely. Over the years, the Micarta had taken on a beautiful yellow hue similar to real ivory.
Lifelong good buddy Paul with some of his Randalls and a few other toys. I’ve known Paul longer than any other person on the planet.
Paul is an experienced and serious knifemaker, and he is also a collector. He has the nicest collection of Randall knives I’ve ever seen, as well as a bunch of other high-end knives.
Now, on this business of Bowie knives: In the previous Bowie blog (to which I provided a link above), I wrote briefly about the history of Jim Bowie and the knife that bears his name. And speaking about bears, some of you might be thinking about Davy Crockett, a Bowie knife, and the myth surrounding his encounter with a bear. Congressman Crockett’s ursine encounter is but a story; it’s not historical fact. It likely came about as the result of the song, “The Ballad of Davy Crockett.” As our President might say: It’s fake news. There’s no proof it actually occurred. But it’s fun to think about.
My two recent custom Bowie acquisitions are both massive knives. The Micarta-handled bowie has a blade length of 9 3/4 inches and an overall length of 14 7/8 inches. It’s a huge knife with a gorgeous brass guard. It is simply stunning.
The Micarta Bowie. The handle, the brass guard and pommel, the blade, the brass pins, and the Micarta handle make for a beautiful custom knife.A close up shot of the craftsmanship on the custom Bowie handle. It is an exquisite knife.Big boys, big toys: Both of these knives are huge. The Micarta-handled knife has a good feel to it. The ruler you see above is 15 inches long.
The curly maple custom Bowie knife is the one that got all this going. When I saw the one Paul had crafted for himself, I had to have one. I absolutely didn’t need it, but I wanted it. I wanted one just like Paul’s, and he came through. It’s a beautiful knife.
Paul does beautiful custom work. You should see his black powder rifles; they are equally impressive. This knife just looks right.The workmanship on both knives is superb. The guard and the pommel are beautiful bits of aluminum hand filed and finished by Paul. There are a lot of hours in these knives, and it shows.Curly maple, custom everything: This is a beautiful Bowie knife. The background for this photo and others in this blog is an Ossabaw hog skin. I shot it on a hunt with Paul in Arizona about 10 years ago with a curly-maple-stocked Model 70.
The curly maple knife is even bigger than the Micarta knife (the blade length is 10 inches and the handle is 5 1/4 inches, for an overall length of 15 1/4 inches). Although it’s bigger, the maple knife is noticeably lighter than the Micarta Bowie due to its more slender blade, the aluminum guard and pommel, and the curly maple handle. Both are big, big knives. Huge, actually.
Paul asked for my inputs during the design of both knives, and he kept me posted with photos as the knives came together. It was fun, and I now own the two beautiful Bowies you see in this blog (three, if you count the first one). They are stunning knives, they are built exactly as I wanted them, and they are a magnificent addition to my small collection.
You know, we have bears here in southern California. Lots of them, apparently. One was in the backyard of a home just a half-mile from ours few days ago. Bears, be forewarned. Thanks to Paul, I’m ready.
Yes, it really was like that. Somewhere along the Silk Road (the actual Silk Road) in China. I parked my RX3 when I saw the double rainbow, thinking someday I might use the shot in a blog about this adventure.
Almost 40 years ago, I saw my first Indiana Jones movie and it affected me profoundly. I started traveling the world stumbling upon lost empires. Things that have been swallowed by time, as they say. My motorcycle ride through Colombia had some of that. The Baja adventures have a bit of it, too. But none of the rides had more of an Indiana Jones flavor than did the ride across China. That ride was three years ago this month, and I still think about it every day. There were several things we saw in China that would have been right at home in an Indiana Jones movie. One was Liqian. I can best tell you about it with an excerpt from Riding China, the story of the ride with Joe Gresh across the Ancient Kingdom.
Gobi Gresh, aka Arjiu, stopping to smell the sunflowers in China.
The ride in the morning was just like yesterday. We rode the Silk Road at high speed, making great time in magnificent weather. I knew we were going to Wuwei (you could have a lot of fun with that name; it’s pronounced “woo wee”), but that was really all I knew about that day as we started out that morning. Boy, would this day ever be an interesting one!
It was to be a very full day, and Wuwei would be another one of those cities of several million people that seem to pop up in China every 50 to 100 miles. It was a huge city I had never heard of. China is an amazing place, and I was going to learn today it is more amazing than I could have imagined, and for a reason I would have never guessed. I’ve mentioned Indiana Jones movies a lot in this book. Today, we came upon something that could easily be…well, read on. This is going to be good.
After riding for a couple of hours, we left the freeway and entered a city called Yongchang. It seemed to be pretty much a regular Chinese city until we stopped. I needed to find a bathroom and Wong helped me. Wong is a big, imposing guy. He’s a corrections officer supervisor in Xi’an. He has a friendly look, but he can turn that off in a New York minute and become an extremely imposing figure. I saw him do that once on this trip, and I’ll tell you about that episode when we get to it.
Corrections Officer Supervisor Wong. He looks like a mischievous guy. This guy’s command presence was amazing. I saw him stop a car just by looking at it. Here, he’s enjoying the attention in Yongchang.
Anyway, I followed Wong through a couple of alleys and businesses until we came to an empty restaurant (it was mid-morning, and it had no customers). Wong spoke to the lady there, she nodded her head and smiled at me, and pointed to the bathroom. When I rejoined the guys back on the street, several women at a tailor shop (we had coincidentally stopped in front of a tailor shop) were fussing over Wong. He needed a button sewn on his jacket and it was obvious they were flirting with him. Wong seemed to be enjoying it. Like I said, Wong is a big guy, and I guess you could say he’s good looking. I think the women who were sewing his button on were thinking the same thing.
Beautiful young Chinese ladies. Mostly Chinese, anyway. The one on the left is entering my phone number in her contacts list.
Three teenage girls approached us and wanted to know about our bikes. Like many young Chinese, they spoke English (in China, you learn English as a second language in grade school; it is a strong advantage in Chinese society if you can speak English well). They wanted to practice with us. It was the routine stuff (“how are you?” “hello,” and things like that) until one of the teenaged girls looked directly at me and asked, “Can I have your phone number?” Gresh and I both had a good laugh over that. I actually gave her my phone number and she carefully entered it into her phone (and no, she hasn’t called me yet).
I was enjoying all of this immensely, taking photos of the girls, the seamstresses flirting with Wong, and the rest of China all around me. There was something different about one of those teenage girls. I couldn’t quite recognize what it was, but to me she definitely looked, well, different.
Yongchang statues. They don’t look as Chinese as you might think they should. There’s a reason for that.
It was at about that time that Sean approached me and said, “Dajiu, do you see those three statues over there?” He pointed to three tall statues that faced us, perhaps 300 yards away. I nodded yes. “If you look at their faces, you will see that they have Roman features.” Truth be told, I couldn’t really see it in the statues because they were too far away, but I grabbed a photo and later, on my computer, I could see something different. But before I looked at the photo, it all clicked for me. That’s what had my attention with that girl. We were literally in the middle of China and she didn’t look as Chinese as her two friends. She looked different.
All right, my friends, I need to go tangential here for a minute or two and share this story with you. Hang on, because this is real Indiana Jones stuff. No, scratch that. I’ve never seen an Indiana Jones movie with a story line this good (and I’ve seen all of them).
More than 2,000 years ago, before the birth of Christ, the two most powerful empires on the planet were the Roman Empire and the Han Dynasty. These two superpowers of their time enjoyed a brisk trade relationship along the Silk Road. Yep, the very same trail we had been riding for the last few days. Between them (in what became Iran and its surrounding regions) lay a smaller empire called Parthia. For reasons only the Romans understood, Rome thought it would be a good idea to attack Parthia. They sent several Roman Legions to war (and to put this in perspective, a Roman Legion consisted of about 5,000 men). To everyone’s surprise (including, I would imagine, the Romans), the Parthians kicked Rome’s butt.
Wow, imagine that. Rome, defeated on the field of battle by the much smaller Parthian Empire. To put it mildly, things did not quite go the way the Romans thought they would.
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All of this severely disrupted trade between the Han Dynasty and the Romans, and nobody liked that. “Why the hell did you do that?” the Han Dynasty asked Rome. “We had a good thing going and you screwed it up.” At least that’s what I’m guessing the conversation went like. You get the idea.
Cooler minds prevailed and the Romans realized, yeah, that was a dumb move. The Romans told the Parthians, hey, it’s over, let’s be friends again. The war ended, the Chinese were happy, the Romans were happy, the Parthians were happy, and trade resumed. All’s well that ends well.
Well, sort of. There was still that matter of those pesky Roman legions that had invaded Parthia. They didn’t come back from that war, and for two thousand years, no one knew what happened to them. The Romans probably assumed their Legionnaires had all been slaughtered. No one knew until an Australian dude and a Chinese guy, both University archeologist types (starting to sound a little like Indiana Jones yet?) put a theory together in 1957. Hmmm, maybe those Romans had not been killed after all.
The Parthians, being bright enough to defeat the Romans, were not about to let the Legionnaires go home and perhaps attack them again in some future war. They didn’t want to kill the Romans, either. I guess they were kinder, gentler Parthians. Here’s where those two Aussie and Chinese archeologists enter the picture. They hypothesized that the Parthians told the errant Legionnaires, “Look, we don’t want to kill all you guys, but there’s no way we’re going to let you go back to Rome. And there’s no room for you here, either. Your only option is to keep heading east. Go to China. Maybe you crazy warmongering Italians will find nice Chinese girls and settle down.” With that, and as one might imagine, a hearty arrivederci, the Romans continued their eastward march straight into the middle of China.
And folks, the prevailing wisdom today is that is exactly what happened (although the prevailing wisdom evidently hasn’t prevailed very far, as I had never heard the story until that morning in Yongchang). In fact, prior to this theory surfacing, folks wondered why the Chinese referred to the area around Yongchang as Liqian. That’s not a Chinese word, and it’s unlike the name of any other Chinese town. The folks who know about these things tell me it is an unusual word in the Chinese language.
Liqian is pronounced “Lee Chee On.”
Get it yet?
Lee Chee On? Liqian?
Doesn’t it sound like “legion?” As in Roman legion?
A Chinese man in Liqian. This guy could be the Marlboro Man for a Chinese cigarette company!
I found all of this fascinating. I saw more than a few people around the Liqian area that had a distinct western appearance, and they all consented to my taking their photos when I asked. They recognize just how special their story is. The Chinese government is taking note of this area, too. They are developing a large theme park just outside of Yongchang with a Roman motif. We visited that theme park, and while we were there, Sergeant Zuo gave a book to me (printed in both English and Chinese) about the place. It is one of the two books I brought back from China, and that book is now one of my most prized possessions.
Imagine that: Roman legions, resettled in the middle of China, in a town called Liqian. And I rode there. On an RX3.
Watch for our next Indiana Jones episode in China. It’s about the lost Buddhist grottos at Mo Gao in the Gobi Desert. There’s more good stuff coming your way. Stay tuned!
Want to read more about the ride across China? Pick up a copy of Riding China!
Last year, Susie and I took a trip to Georgia, Wisconsin, and Michigan. It was fun. We met with my former battery commander (with whom I served in Korea), we went to the Harley Museum in Milwaukee, we visited Green Bay and their fabulous Auto Museum, we stopped in at the Green Bay Rail Museum, we rode up to the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, we toured the Miller Brewery, and we hit a few other places (I’ll provide links for all these at the end of this blog). We do trips like this to have fun and as ExNotes and Motorcycle Classics content safaris. It’s fun. I like to travel, I like to write, and I like taking pictures. Yep, life is good, and what we do sure beats working for a living.
Susie is super good at finding places (usually ones I’d never heard of) wherever we wander, and one of them was the Pabst Mansion in Milwaukee. This is an interesting story. You probably know from the Miller Brewery blog we wrote last year that Milwaukee is America’s beer capital. One of the early beer companies in America was Pabst. The story goes like this: Frederick Pabst came to this country from Germany as a 12-year-old boy (with his family) in 1848. He started his working life as a cabin boy on the ships plying Lake Michigan and eventually worked his way up to captain. He married Maria Best in 1857, which brought him into the beer business. Maria’s father owned Best and Company, which at the time was the largest beer company in the country. The Captain (as Frederick Pabst was known by that time) joined the beer biz in 1864, and through hard work (and an obviously smart choice in the matrimonial department) he soon became the top dog. The Captain changed the company’s name to the Pabst Brewing Company in 1874.
The Captain commissioned construction of the Pabst Mansion in 1890. It took a couple of years to build, but I think the wait was worth it. This place is as grand as anything I’ve seen anywhere in the world. Apparently, I’m not the only who felt that way; in 1908 the Catholic church’s Archdiocese of Milwaukee purchased the place. Over the next seven decades, five Archbishops and more than a few priests and nuns lived there, too. By 1975, the Archdiocese wanted out, and sold the property to Wisconsin Heritage, and outfit that offers tours and sells tickets. That’s a good thing; the Pabst Mansion (prior to the sale) was going to be demolished and turned into a parking lot. Just prior to the sale to Wisconsin Heritage, the Pabst Mansion was added to the National Register of Historic Places.
Once inside the mansion, we were blown away by its ornateness, the beautiful wood paneling, and the sheer luxuriousness of it. As we went through the different rooms, I wondered what it must have been like for the Captain, and then all those archbishops, priests, and nuns to live here. It must have been grand.
Living there must have been grand. We had a fun time at the Pabst Mansion. If you ever find yourself in Milwaukee, the Pabst Mansion is worth a stop.
The other blogs and magazine articles I mentioned that resulted from our visits to Georgia, Wisconsin, and Michigan? Here they are:
The morning light over Puerto Natales was soft and silver, with a misty rain that whispered rather than shouted. Tom and I shouldered our packs, my heart fluttering with a mix of nerves and anticipation as we stepped into the unknown. We boarded the early bus from Puerto Natales, joining a mix of wide-eyed trekkers and seasoned hikers, all bound for Torres del Paine National Park. The drive itself felt like a quiet ritual — the final stretch of comfort before the wild began. As we moved deeper into Patagonia, the land shifted again: golden steppes gave way to alpine slopes, windswept plateaus, and glimpses of distant glaciers. At the park entrance, we checked in with our reservations and caught the connecting shuttle to the Central/Torres sector, arriving at Refugio Chileno, our gateway to the trek’s first challenge.
We hiked for several hours along the Río Ascencio, winding through lenga forests – native beech trees with leaves that whispered in the wind — crossing footbridges, and climbing switchbacks softened by moss and whipped by gusts. The relentless Patagonian wind pushed against our packs, howling around bends – a constant reminder that nothing in Patagonia is guaranteed.
By late afternoon, we reached Refugio Chileno, perched at the edge of a forested valley. For the next two nights, this would be our home: a reserved tent platform with meals provided by the Refugio. The food here was the best of the entire trek, and the staff radiated warmth and kindness. Though the quarters were small and cramped — especially with day hikers seeking shelter — the atmosphere remained joyful and welcoming.
The setting was raw and beautiful — the kind of place where you arrive dusty, tired, and utterly alive. We laid out our gear, adjusted our layers, and walked down to the river to watch the sunset light up the granite towers in hues of copper and rose. Our bellies full of fresh salmon, brought in by horseback, and some much-needed vino Tinto, we climbed the stairs to our tent platform surrendering to the exhaustion of the day.
Day 2: Mirador del Torre – The Towers
Despite the wind and rain keeping frustrated hikers at bay through the morning, we kept a close eye on the forecast. Around 1 p.m., the clouds began to lift – just enough to give us hope that the iconic granite spires we had come to see might finally reveal themselves.
The climb was tough: wind whipping, rain falling, slippery, rocky switchbacks slowing our pace. But the moment we reached Mirador Torres, the clouds cleared fully, unveiling the full glory of the towers rising sharply against the sky. Seeing the towers for the first time stopped me in my tracks. I had dreamed of this moment, one of the most iconic sights in Patagonia, and now I had arrived. After the long, grueling climb, standing at the base of those towering granite spires was nothing short of humbling. They rose with such raw power and timelessness, carved by ice and wind over millennia, that I felt both incredibly small and deeply connected to something far greater than myself. That glimpse, brief and breathtaking, was worth every bone-weary step.
Day 3: Humbling Miles Along Lake Nordenskjöld
We woke up in our tent excited to see what day three would bring. It wasn’t until I climbed down the stairs of the tent that I came to terms with smoked legs and aching knees. Oh lord, I felt old! We had heard this would be the “easy” day, relatively flat, a chance to recover. That turned out to be not exactly accurate! The trail stretched endlessly in rocky, uneven waves, one steep climb after another, each followed by a jarring descent. The ups and downs felt cruel, especially on sore joints and tender muscles. The wind rarely left us. It pushed against our packs, howled around bends, and made balance tricky over exposed rock sections.
We traced the shoreline of Lake Nordenskjöld for most of the day, its slate-blue water glinting beneath a thick ceiling of clouds that later broke open to brilliant blue. The views were stunning, even through the fog of physical discomfort: sprawling valleys, snow-dusted peaks, and the icy blue lake curving endlessly at our side. It was wild and cinematic — just enough magic to keep us moving. A family from the East Coast crossed paths with us several times throughout the day. Each time, we shared a moment of mutual misery, cheering each other on with dark humor and tired smiles.
By the final stretch, the fatigue wore thin on both of us. Tom, usually my steady, optimistic hiking partner, hit a wall. Frustrated, he picked up his pace and took off ahead, muttering curses at the unknown trail gods. Too tired to keep up and trying my best to hide my giggles at Tom’s colorful curses. I soldiered slowly up and down the trail ever longing for the day to end and preferably ending with a pisco sour or glass of wine.
And then it happened: A section of trail gave out underfoot – loose rock, bad timing, tired legs. I tumbled hard, unable to catch myself. When I landed, I knew instantly my left knee was in trouble. The pain was sharp and deep. Sitting in the dirt, stunned, breathing through the sting. Alone, I took slow, careful steps, stopping often. My knee buckled repeatedly. Doubt crept in as to whether I would even make it to camp. The trail seemed to stretch forever.
Then, finally, just as the trail descended toward Refugio Los Cuernos, I saw Tom waiting, his earlier frustration replaced by quiet concern. He took my pack without a word and helped me down the final stretch. I was still upright, still walking, but just barely. The relief of seeing him was immense. We reached the Refugio together, subdued, exhausted, and deeply relieved.
Refugio Los Cuernos sits tucked beneath the jagged black horns of the Cuernos del Paine, towering, wind-carved peaks that look like something from a dream. The setting is spectacular: to one side, the deep turquoise waters of Lake Nordenskjöld; to the other, the dramatic silhouettes of the horned mountains looming above like ancient guardians.
The Refugio itself is small and charming, wooden cabins scattered along a rocky slope, connected by boardwalks. Our tent platform was nestled into a gentle rise just a short distance from the bar and dining hall. The communal area buzzed with tired hikers sharing meals, comparing stories, and soaking up the fading golden light.
That night, we ate with our boots still on, grateful for the hot food, a precious ice pack provided by the staff, and a warm place to sit. The staff, kind, and patient despite their long day, served up hearty portions and laughter with our meals. As the wind howled outside and the peaks turned dusky purple, we sipped wine and leaned into the warmth of it all. We were sore and injured in new places, but also held, somehow, by the land and by each other.
Day 4: The French Valley
The morning started slowly as Tom checked on my knee, confirming that I tore my meniscus already compromised years earlier. We talked through how best to continue the trail. The staff at Los Cuernos kindly offered, for a fee, to transport my backpack to the next Refugio. I gratefully accepted. Shedding 20-plus pounds gave me the best shot at finishing the day ahead.
I set out earlier than Tom, knowing he would catch up quickly. I often joke he is part man and part mountain goat, thanks to years of summiting peaks across North America and, more recently, 26 nights of hiking in Nepal. My pace would be slower, and we both knew it.
I arrived at Refugio Francés mid-morning and took a welcome break. With sweeping views and a patch of sun warming me, I indulged in a second breakfast while waiting for Tom to catch up.
Before reaching Campamento Italiano that afternoon, we paused on a narrow ledge, the forest thick around us, wind whispering through the trees. Below us, the French Valley unfolded like a hidden cathedral: raw, vast, and breathtaking. I dropped my trekking poles and leaned back against Tom, my heart pounding as I looked up. For a moment, I simply forgot to breathe, overwhelmed by the sheer scale and silence. Jagged granite peaks rose like spires; their faces streaked with snow. Glaciers spilled down cliffs like frozen waterfalls, suspended in time. Somewhere high above, an avalanche cracked like distant thunder, echoing through the stillness.
It was not just the view. It was everything it meant, that we had made it here, injured, and uncertain, every step hard-earned. I stood there, breath finally returning, feeling both insignificant and fiercely alive. We rested for a while, watching clouds drift low over the valley walls, the wind tugging gently at our jackets. Many hikers dropped their bags and headed up the trail to Mirador Británico, a high lookout deep within the valley. That had been our original plan too.
But my knee had its own truth to tell. We knew that if I pushed too far, I might not be able to walk the next day. So, with a bittersweet kind of grace, we turned west toward Refugio Paine Grande, skipping the deeper valley climb.
The trail to Paine Grande offered long, sweeping views of Lago Skottsberg, the wind carving whitecaps on its slate-blue surface. We followed the ridgeline, battered by gusts but buoyed by the promise of shelter, and a hot meal at the end.
When we arrived, Paine Grande felt massive. Easily the largest Refugio we had seen, it sprawled at the base of the mountains, surrounded by a wide field dotted with rows of identical lemon-yellow tents, each fluttering in the wind like wildflowers stitched into the grass. The bright, bold color was almost joyful, defiant against the gray sky and rugged peaks surrounding it.
Inside, the Refugio was warm and bustling. Hikers shuffled in camp slippers and fleece layers, swapping stories and queuing in the cafeteria-style restaurant, trays in hand, hungry in that special way only trail days create. We claimed our assigned table, plates piled with pasta and warm bread, our bodies already loosening in the glow of arrival.
After dinner, like every night on the W, we headed to the Refugio bar. It had quickly become our ritual: wine, cold Patagonian beer, or a celebratory pisco sour, frothy, citrus-bright, the perfect end to the day. That night, sipping wine with my knee gingerly stretched beneath the table, something in me settled. I was in a place that felt unreal, wild, remote, and somehow tender, with a man whose gaze held warmth and love. This shared journey deepened our understanding of each other and quietly strengthened our bond. Gratitude settled beside me, humbled by the magic of the moment.
This was an interesting blog to write (and it was interesting on many levels). As you know, I’m writing a series of blogs on motorcycles I’ve owned with the machines organized by cylinder count. The idea is to consider all of them from my ownership perspective, rack up a bunch of (hopefully) fun-to-read blogs, and then wrap up with my opinion on which engine configuration is the best. I’ve already done the first one on the singles I’ve owned.
A word on the photos: I was surprised I had photographs of every bike I’ve ever owned. In recent decades, after I had become a half-assed amateur photographer, the photo quality is generally good. In earlier years, I was not a very good photographer, nor was my equipment very good. Some of the photos are in black and white, and most of the earlier ones were taken with a dinky little Minolta C-110 camera. Hey, you go to war with the army you have.
Between that first ¿Quantos Pistones? post and this one, something self-updated on my computer and my laptop went from simply taking my orders to predicting what words I’m going to type next and then filling them in, which I found to be wildly annoying. I thought it was in the WordPress software, but it wasn’t. It was in my Edge browser. Google helped me; I found the offending “feature” in the Edge settings and switched it off. I think these software weenies are changing things just to give themselves something to do. I wish they would stop. The folks who keep doing this sort of thing are going to have a hard time explaining themselves when they’re standing in front of the pearly gates. I’ll be there, too, as a witness for the prosecution.
Rant over; let’s get back to the main attraction.
As was the case in the blog on singles, I am again discovering this: Just when I think I’ve listed all of the twins I’ve owned, I remember another one. That sure has been the case here. I suppose I had better hit the Publish button before I remember another one.
Alrighty then: With the above as a backdrop, here we go.
1965 Honda CB 160
Okay, I’m cheating a little. This wasn’t my bike at all. It was my Dad’s. But I rode it in the fields behind our house quite a bit and I sort of considered it to be mine, and that’s why it’s on this list.
The 1964 Honda CB 160, That’s me on the bike in New Jersey, during the winter months, when I was 14 years old.
The little 160 was nice. It was the first motorcycle I ever rode and I had a lot of fun on it. Honda was making big inroads in the United States in the mid-1960s and they changed nearly everything in the motorcycle world. It was a fun time for a 14-year-old kid.
The CB 160 only stayed with us for a couple of months. Dad had been bitten by the bug. He wanted something bigger.
1965 Honda Super Hawk
As was the case with the CB 160, the Super Hawk was Dad’s motorcycle. But the same modifier applied: I used to ride it in the fields behind our house in New Jersey, so I’m including it here.
Fast forward a bit, and it’s me again during the summer months on a 1965 Honda Super Hawk. We had a swimming pool, so I spent my summers in a bathing suit.
The Super Hawk, with its 305 cubic centimeters, seemed infinitely more powerful than the CB 160 (especially riding it in the fields behind our house). Dad had the bug, though. The Super Hawk would only last for a couple of months, too.
1966 Triumph Bonneville
Ah, this was a motorcycle. A Triumph Bonneville. I couldn’t believe it. It had been my dream machine for at least a couple of years, and now there was one in the garage. And you know what? Dad let me ride it in those same fields behind our house. I can’t imagine what he was thinking or why he let me do that. I never dropped it, though. God Almighty, it was powerful. And the sound….it was awesome.
Mom and Dad on the 1966 Triumph Bonneville. You can see their other Bonneville (a 1965 Pontiac) in the garage. You could say we liked Bonnevilles. No one in my family has ever been to the Bonneville Salt Flats. I probably should go there one of these days.
The Bonneville was an amazing motorcycle. Dad and I had a lot of good rides on it. I wish we had kept it. On that sound comment above: Nothing, and I mean nothing, has a a more soul-satisfying exhaust note than a Triumph.
1978 Triumph Bonneville
I was living in Fort Worth, Texas, I was single, and I was an engineer at General Dynamics on the F-16 program. When I passed by the Triumph dealer I realized I hadn’t ridden a Triumph Bonneville since I was 16 years old, so I thought I’d stop by. An hour later I signed on the dotted line, and I owned a Bonneville again.
My 1978 Triumph Bonneville, parked outside my apartment in Fort Worth, Texas. The colors have mostly drained from these two photos. The bike was a deep candy apple red.Another shot of my 1978 Triumph Bonneville.
It was a great motorcycle. There was an older guy who owned a Yamaha TT 500 at General Dynamics (his name was Sam), and we road all the farm roads in the areas around Fort Worth. We both had hay fever and Texas had terrible pollen, but the riding was great. My Bonneville would top out at exactly 109mph (the earlier T120 and then T140 designations notwithstanding), and that was enough. The bike was kick start only (which made it an anachronism in 1978), but I was okay with that, too. For awhile, anyway.
I sold the Bonneville. I’m can’t remember why; I did a lot of dumb things when I was young. Shortly after I sold the Bonneville, I realized I needed a motorcycle again. You know, to be a complete person. That led to my next acquisition. But to this day, I wish I had kept the Bonneville.
1979 Harley Electra-Glide Classic
I used to spend a lot of time at the Fort Worth Harley dealer drooling over their new bikes. The late ’70s were, in my opinion, the height of the Willie G styling years at Harley. It was also the absolute bottom for them from a quality perspectives, as I would soon find out when I finally bit the bullet and bought the bike I thought was the most beautiful motorcycle I’d ever seen: The 1979 Electra-Glide Classic.
Yours truly, with a full head of hair and a 1979 Electra-Glide Classic. I called it my optical illusion. It looked like a motorcycle.
The Electra-Glide was beautiful, but to call it a piece of crap would be insult to turds the world over. The bike couldn’t go a hundred miles without something breaking on it. It needed three top end jobs in the 12,000 miles I owned it (the first two were on the warranty, the last one was on me). I’d finally had it with that bike and what some folks like to call “The Motor Company.” Hell, the motor was the worst thing on that bike. And the brakes. And the clutch. And the starter. And the handling. And the….well, you get the idea. It was one of the last years Harley was owned by AMF, and when a Harley mechanic told me what that stood for, I finally got it. I smiled inwardly when I sold the bike, thinking to myself, “Adios, MF.”
On the way down to San Diego, with the Pacific Ocean in the background. I explored a lot of southern California on the Harley. It was the most unreliable motor vehicle of any type I ever owned.
After that awkward ownership experience, I swore I’d never buy another Harley. I didn’t keep that promise, though.
Even considering all the above, I wish I still had that ’79 Electra-Glide. It would be worth a small fortune today. It sure was a pretty motorcycle.
1976 Triumph TR6
Somewhere in the succession of events described above, I moved from Fort Worth to southern California. General Dynamics transferred me to the Pomona facility. I loved southern California and I hated GD/Pomona. Actually, that’s not entirely accurate. The company was okay, but my boss was a dickhead. So I did what I normally do in that situation: I quit and went to work for another defense contractor. While there, I worked with yet another defense company, and one of the guys there had a 1976 Triumph TR6 he offered to sell to me for $500. It was running, it was registered, and minutes later it was mine.
On Glendora Ridge Road on the 1972 Triumph Tiger. It was a great motorcycle.
The TR6 was a wonderful motorcycle. If there was a performance difference between it and a Bonneville, I didn’t have the asspitude to feel it. The single-carb TR6 actually felt stronger at low rpm than the Bonneville did. I loved that bike, too.
Another Glendora Ridge Road portrait. The Tiger had character, and I mean that in a good way.
The paint on the TR6 had oxidized pretty badly (the former owner kept it outside). I had this idea I would restore it (see above regarding my propensity to do dumb things when I was younger). I did a pretty good job turning the great-running TR6 into a basket case (again, see the preceding comments regarding my youthful decisions). The paint job I paid for on the fuel tank was a disaster, and then I lost interest in resurrecting the bike. I sold the basket of bits and pieces for what I had paid for the bike. I wish I still had that one.
1972 Triumph Daytona
The first motorcycle I ever went gaga over was a 1964 Triumph Tiger that a kid named Walt Skok rode to high school. In those days, the Tiger was a 500cc twin that looked a lot like a Bonneville. God, that thing was beautiful.
One of the neighbor kids on my 1972 Triumph Daytona, also known as the Baby Bonneville. This was another great motorcycle.
Triumph kept that 500cc twin in their line for years, ultimately adding a second carb and rechristening the bike as the Daytona. When the 650 line went to the oil-frame-configuration in the early 1970s, the Daytona (also known as the Baby Bonneville) did not; it kept the classic Triumph separate oil tank and peashooter mufflers.
I can’t remember who I bought the Daytona from (I bought it used), but I sure remember its looks. It was a deep candy metallic green with silver accents. It was bone stock and it was a wonderful ride. The handing was almost thought-directed…I could just think what I wanted the motorcycle to do and it would do it. One day, for no particular reason, I took it to the top of one of our streets that ran up into the mountains, turned it around, turned off the ignition, and started coasting downhill. I wanted to see how fast it would go with zero power (see my previous decision-making comments); the answer was exactly 70mph.
I never registered the Daytona over the three years I owned it; I just rode the snot out of it. I never got stopped or and I never had a citation for the expired plates. I can’t remember why I sold it, or who I sold it to. The Daytona was a wonderful motorcycle. I wish I still had it.
1992 Harley Heritage Softail
I didn’t keep my promise to never buy another Harley. A fried let me ride his ’89 Electra-Glide. It was a big, fat porker (the bike, not my friend), but Harley was getting a lot of press about their improved quality. I saw a blue Heritage Softail on the road one day, and I decided I need one. It was that simple.
I covered a lot of territory on my 1992 Harley Softail. This shot was in the mud flats near Guerrero Negro in Baja, a trip I made with good buddy Baja John.
I put a lot of miles on my ’92 Softail, and while it lasted, it was a great motorcycle. Good buddy Baja John and I rode our bikes to Cabo, we took the ferry across the Sea of Cortez, and we rode down to Guadalajara and then back up through mainland Mexico to Nogales (you can read about that adventure here).
The Harley died on me down in Mexico on another trip, and although I had regained a tiny bit of trust in Milwaukee, the dealers were still (in my opinion) basically incompetent. When my ’92 went belly up, the dealer wouldn’t touch it because it was more than 10 years old (I can’t make this stuff up, folks), so I took it to an unencumbered independent repair shop and had it rebuilt as a real motorcycle (you can read that story here).
What kind of killed the Harley dream was me forgetting to pick up milk one day when coming home from a ride on the Harley. My wife asked about the milk. I realized I had forgot it, so I went back out to run to the store. For whatever reason, I took my KLR, and it was as if I had been set free. The KLR was just so much better, I put an ad in the local Cycle Trader the next day and sold the Harley the day after that.
While I am on this subject of Harley twins, I will tell you that I always wanted a Sportster. One day the Harley dealer had to keep my bike overnight and he lent a Sportster to me. That changed my mind in a hurry. It was gutless. I know some of my readers ride Sportsters and others ride Big Twins. Mea culpa in advance. If you’d like to tell me how great your bikes are and how I have my head up my fourth point of contact, please leave a comment, or send in a draft blog (info@exhaustnotes.us) with pics and I’ll publish your rebuttal.
1982 Yamaha XS 650
This was a lucky find, or rather, it sort of found me. I was teaching a failure analysis class at McDonnell Douglas about thirty years ago, and the first evening when I connected my laptop to the projector, a photo of the Triumph Daytona (the one described above) briefly appeared in front of the class.
“Hey, I have one of those,” one of the older engineers in the class said. I asked if he was a Triumph fanboy (as I was). He told me that he didn’t have a Triumph; he had the Yamaha that was based on it. He offered to sell it to me in front of the entire class. I hadn’t even introduced myself yet.
“Let’s talk after class,” I said.
I turns out this guy had purchased the XS 650 new, rode it very little, and it had sat in his garage for several years. I bought it for $900. I think it was a 1982 model, but I can’t say that for sure. Being a Triumph rider, I always thought it would be cool to own one of the Japanese 650 twins. You know…better reliability, no oil leaks, smoother running engines, better fit and finish, and all that.
I found had a good shot (at least I think it is good) of my 1982 Yamaha XS 650 Heritage Special. To this day, I don’t know how Yamaha managed to make the bars so uncomfortable.
I didn’t keep the XS 650 long enough to assess its reliability. I did keep it and ride it long enough to find out that it had absolutely no personality, it didn’t have the bottom end torque that a Triumph did, it sounded more like George Jetson’s car than a real motorcycle (let’s see how many of you know who he was), its Phillips head screws reacted to a screw driver the same way butter reacted to a hot butterknife, and the “cruiser style” handlebars were the most uncomfortable I’d ever experienced. As you can guess, the XS 650 didn’t hang around long. I traded it in to lower the cash outlay on my TL1000S Suzuki.
1997 Suzuki TL1000S
Ducati was setting the world on fire with its L-twin performance bikes, and predictably, it was only a matter of time before the Japanese attempted to do the same. Two L-Twin Japanese motorcycles emerged in 1997: Suzuki’s TL1000S and Honda’s Super Hawk (not to be confused with their Super Hawk of the mid-1960s, as shown above in this Twins story). I opted for the Suzuki variant in red. I just liked the looks of it; I felt it was a prettier motorcycle than the Honda.
The Roadmaster. This thing ate miles and speed limits voraciously. I toured a lot of Baja on it. This photo was taken somewhere in northern Baja.
The Suzuki was the fastest and hardest accelerating motorcycle I ever owned. It would lift the front wheel when shifting from second to third at over 100 mph. I dropped it twice getting in over my head, but I never really damaged the bike or myself. I used the TL as a touring bike, and I covered large parts of Baja with it. It was a fabulous machine and I wish I still had it.
2020 Royal Enfield INT
My most recent twin is the Royal Enfield 650 INT. Enfield called it the Interceptor initially (which is a much better name), but they quickly changed it to the INT (my guess is because Honda threatened to sue them, as they already had a model called the Interceptor).
The Motorcycle Classics magazine centerfield showing the two Enfields Gresh and I used for touring Baja. It was a fun trip.
Gresh and I conned Enfield North America into loaning us two bikes (a 500cc Bullet and the new twin INT) for a comparo ride in Baja. We had a great trip, trading bikes off each day and blogging extensively about our impressions. I liked the INT so much I bought one shortly after we returned. It’s a great bike at a great price and it has all the performance I’ll ever need, both as a street bike and as a touring bike.
So there you go. I’ve owned a lot of twins. To me, a well-engineered twin makes a great street bike.
You know what? In searching for photos of my old twins, I found another single I’d forgotten all about. It was my Triumph Cub.
I never put the Cub on the street. I just rode it a bit in the fields behind my apartment building and then sold it. It was crude compared to other bikes of the era, but it was nice. It would be worth way more today than what I paid for it or what I got when I sold it.
Originality is rare in the mechanical world. Designers build on other’s work. The clean sheet stays clean and so the Honda Dream was heavily influenced by German motorcycles of the 50’s. Just like Honda’s 305 inspired Laverda’s 750 of the mid-1960’s.
The Dream borrowed a lot of ideas from the German NSU.And then Laverda borrowed a lot of ideas from Honda’s 305 engine.
Of course, none of that has to do with the job at hand: getting the 1962 Dream running as cheaply as possible.
The running part was easy: you can’t kill these old Hondas. I cleaned the carb, squirted some oil in the cylinders and onto the valve train, rigged a battery and a hot wire to the ignition, stabbed the starter wire onto the positive-battery and the Honda fired right up.
The sprag clutch (red arrow) will need some work. It skips and grabs intermittently.
Not right-right up as the electric starter’s sprag clutch is a hit and miss affair. (I’ll work on that later) once the engine turned over it ran.
Of course, clouds of smoke poured out of the tail pipes, as all that oil I squirted in the cylinder was burning off. Then the left cylinder stopped firing. I discovered the Tytronic ignition puts out a strong spark when I electrocuted myself pulling the left-side spark plug lead to confirm it wasn’t hitting.
Next I swapped leads to check the secondary of the ignition coil and the problem stayed on the left side. Since there’s only one carb, that left the spark plug. I swapped plugs and the problem moved to the right side.
The Dream came with three boxes of parts, and inside those boxes were at least eight new spark plugs. All were the wrong ones (the reach was too long). I kept digging and found a used plug with the correct reach but a different part number. Regardless, I screwed the thing in and the Honda ran on both cylinders.
The rear fender is kind of a mess.
I shifted the gearbox through its four speeds. The countershaft rotation speed increased with each up shift. I didn’t hear any untoward noises except for the taillight. At some point the taillight cracked the rear fender. Someone, probably an engineer, welded the light to a back plate and then to the fender. Which should have been fine. It wasn’t. The welds broke and the taillight rattled like a loose roofing panel.
I like the way the Dream looks with the fenders shaved. (Photo from internet, I don’t know who took it.)
A hacksaw remedied the taillight situation. I ran the Honda until it quit smoking. The bike kept running better the longer it ran. I have something to work with, baby. Now I can move on to the running gear.
The old speedo cable took a beating.
Unfortunately, my budget-build took a setback with the speedometer cable. The cable stuck in the housing and twisted the end off near the wheel side. Fiscally, I was going to fix it. The dried grey plastic around the housing flaked off easily. I managed to get the cable out and since the speedo cable was a bit long I figured to shorten it by a 1/2-inch and re-crimp the drive tang and end piece. For the plastic cover I was going to use black, heat shrink tubing.
All was going well. I decided to wire wheel the rust on the cable housing. Long-time wire-wheelers will be able to predict what came next. I must have momentarily relaxed my grip on the housing. The wheel grabbed the housing and wound it around the grinder shaft. The loose end flailed like a weed whacker string. I was lucky to escape un-whacked. The worst part is I kind of knew it was going to happen but I kept going anyway.
Four cables for $100! Such a deal!
A new speedometer cable was around $50 on eBay. Or, I can get a complete set of speedometer, clutch, throttle and front brake cables for $100. My budget swelled with excitement. At least I won’t have to watch those other three cables wind around the wire wheel.
I’m using a generic starter relay. These are cheap and available. I’ll need to make a bracket to mount the thing to my bike.Interesting duct work on the 305’s phenolic carb spacer
Then came a bridge rectifier, a starter solenoid, a chain, some o-rings, and new spark plugs. When the stuff shows up I’ll have more work to do.
Still on the list is tires and tubes, a seat cover, cleaning out the gas tank liner crap, and all the wiring. The plan now is to get the bike operational and ride it around a bit to see if it’s worth messing with further.
For Where You in ’62 Parts 1 and 2, as well as earlier Joe Gresh Resurrections, click here.
Some trips are booked on a whim. Others are slow-brewing obsessions. For me, Patagonia was both myth and magnet—pulling at me for over a decade until, finally, I said yes.
From the rhythm of Santiago to the wild edge of Torres del Paine, onward to the granite spires of Fitz Roy, and finally to the end of the world in Ushuaia – this journey began long before the first step.
Some dreams grow slowly, quiet things that live inside you for years, waiting for the right season. In the spring of 2025, I finally answered Patagonia, a land that had lived in my imagination for over a decade.
This five-part series is a love letter to that journey: the W Trek in Torres del Paine, the trail to Fitz Roy, epic glaciers, the emotional and raw beauty of our stay in a turn-of-the-century estancia, and the weeks of awe, grit, and the stillness in between. But before it began, it started here—with four grounding, soul-resetting days in Santiago.
Santiago: A Soft Landing in the South
We arrived on a warm March evening, a little weary from 24 hours of travel. It was our first time traveling in the southern hemisphere together, and the city welcomed us with a gentle kind of grandeur – equal parts aged colonial elegance, unique barrios, and the Andes rising in the distance like a promise.
Santiago surprised me. I expected a pleasant stopover in a city I had yet to explore, but what we found was something deeper: a soulful pause. The city is a seamless blend of past and present – where the Metropolitan Cathedral anchors Plaza de Armas with 18th-century dignity, and just a few blocks away, the creative heartbeat of Barrio Lastarria pulses through cobbled streets lined with wine bars, coffee shops, pisco bars, bookstores, and tucked-away galleries.
We gave ourselves four full days to settle in, slow down, and breathe before the hard miles ahead. We wandered without a plan through Santiago’s romantic, tree-lined streets, lingered over café con leche, and sampled seafood so fresh it felt like the ocean hadn’t even noticed it was missing yet.
We ate slowly, laughed easily, and always – always – had room for a round (or two, or three) of Pisco Sours. There’s something about their sharp, citrusy kick and frothy top that made us pause mid-conversation just to savor. We debated in earnest the merits of Chilean vs. Argentine piscos – aged in sherry flasks vs. clear and youthful expressions. They became a little ritual we both looked forward to at the end of each day.
At night, Barrio Lastarria – our temporary home – transformed. Crowds gathered in the streets as fire dancers performed to the rhythm of drums, laughter, and clapping hands. It felt like a celebration – not just of the city, but of being alive, present, and open to whatever might come next.
One golden afternoon, after a locals’ lunch from the nearby green market, we climbed Cerro Santa Lucía, the small hill where Santiago was founded. From the top, the view stretched beyond colonial rooftops and high-rise towers to the distant edge of the Andes. The wind caught my hair, and I stood quietly, thinking: It’s all really happening.
Santiago didn’t rush us. She cradled us in her warmth and rhythm – and without even trying, helped me remember why we came. She held the silence between what I was leaving behind and the transformative journey ahead.
Packing, Repacking, and Trusting the Journey
When we weren’t exploring the city, I was sprawled across the Airbnb floor, turning our room into a staging ground for our gear. Santiago’s quiet charm and youthful energy balanced the task at hand: preparing for the wilderness ahead.
I repacked my backpack more times than I want to admit – agonizing over every ounce.
Do I really need a second base layer?
Will this hold up to Patagonia’s infamous wind?
Are we actually ready for what’s coming?
Eventually, I stopped trying to pack perfectly and started packing with intention – and trust. The truth is nothing can fully prepare you for Patagonia’s rawness. At some point, you just have to take a leap of faith and go.
Flying South: The Landscape Begins to Shift
From Santiago, we boarded a flight to Puerto Natales, Chile – the gateway to Torres del Paine National Park. As the plane sliced its way southward, the landscape shifted – flat plains giving way to jagged peaks, glacier-fed rivers, and a coastline shaped by wind and time.
Puerto Natales welcomed us with its signature mix of remoteness and warmth. It’s a small, rugged town perched along the edge of Seno Última Esperanza – the Last Hope Sound, a stunning fjord that reaches inland from the Pacific Ocean. With snow-dusted peaks in the distance and steel-gray water stretching out before us, it felt like we had reached the last outpost before stepping off the map.
Colorful corrugated metal buildings lined the streets, most weatherworn but vibrant, standing defiant against Patagonia’s legendary wind. The town is modest but full of charm – local cafés, gear shops, friendly bakeries, and hostels nestled between homes and small restaurants. Everything feels like it belongs here – resilient, practical, but with soft edges.
After a 30-minute shuttle journey from the airport, we checked into our hotel for the next two nights. Our room sat just a short walk from the water’s edge, where fishing boats rocked gently in the inlet and clouds drifted low across the mountains beyond. The cold air felt cleaner, sharper – like the world had been distilled to its purest elements: rock, wind, water, sky.
That evening, Tom and I bundled up and walked along the costanera, the long waterfront promenade that hugs the fjord. The sky was moody and low with clouds, the wind tugging at our jackets. Seabirds dipped low over the water. In the distance, the silhouette of the mountains we came for was just barely visible, blurred and waiting.
We didn’t speak much. We didn’t need to. We were here. The adventure was about to start.
What’s Next: Hiking the W Trek
In Part 2, I’ll take you inside our six-day trek through Torres del Paine: past hanging glaciers, through lenga forests, clomping up to the famous Towers – a dream I’ve held so long come true – ending along the windswept shores of Lago Grey. It was a hike that tested us, shaped us, and left us completely in awe.
If you’ve ever dreamed of Patagonia – or are planning your own trek – drop a comment or question below. I’d love to hear from you.
Patagonia Prep Tips
If Patagonia is on your list – or already on your calendar – here are a few tips from our experience that might help you prepare, both practically and mentally:
Ease into it with Santiago. Give yourself 2–3 days in Santiago to rest, adjust to the time zone, and mentally downshift. Patagonia can be physically demanding, so it’s worth arriving grounded. Plus, Santiago is a beautiful, underrated city full of soul, food, and architecture.
Pack for all four seasons. The weather in Patagonia is famously unpredictable – you can experience sun, sleet, hail, and 50mph winds all in a single day. Prioritize a quality waterproof shell (jacket and pants), a layering system (base layers, fleece, insulated puffy), windproof gloves and a beanie, and trail runners or hiking boots that are well broken-in.
Repack with intention, not perfection. You will overthink your gear (everyone does). Don’t aim for flawless – aim for flexibility. Trust that you’ll adapt on the trail. Patagonia will shake loose whatever you didn’t need anyway.
Download maps and offline essentials. Many areas in Patagonia have little to no cell service. Download maps on Maps.me or Gaia GPS, as well as offline translations (Spanish), weather apps, and your itinerary. Print any confirmations – especially for Refugio’s or border crossings.
Carry both cash and cards. While larger towns accept credit cards, many places in Patagonia – including transport, markets, and smaller cafés – prefer Chilean or Argentine pesos in cash. ATMs can be unreliable, so plan ahead.
Train your body for multi-day hikes. If you’re doing the W Trek or Fitz Roy trails, it helps to prepare with at least a few local hikes beforehand, especially back-to-back days. Work on carrying a loaded pack for long distances.
Prepare mentally for the elements. Patagonia rewards patience, grit, and presence. Some days are full of awe. Others are full of wind and sore feet. You may not always get postcard views – but the rawness is part of what makes it unforgettable.
Early Reservations. For Torres Del Paine Park you will need to make early reservations for your camping or lodging. You cannot enter the park without showing your lodging confirmation.
I’ve had a hard time putting the 
