At some point over the past few years, I realized I’d forgotten how to travel—and as a travel writer, that was a bit of a problem. The pandemic changed almost every aspect of my job, my lifestyle, and indeed, my very identity. While a more mature writer might have spent lockdown reflecting on the meaning of life and how to be a better human—or you know, writing—I spent it mostly just… feeling sorry for myself.
So when I started traveling internationally again in 2021, I did so with an insatiable, voracious energy that probably made me a fairly tedious travel companion. I made traveling—even on personal vacations—feel like work. I ignored my own interests and desires in order to see and do as much as possible. I felt like I had to make up for lost time, that I had to squeeze every last drop from every day that I was traveling, because I didn’t know when the next COVID wave—or world war—would strike, shutting down borders.
Before each trip I’d scour “best of” lists, painstakingly creating custom Google Maps with hundreds of places I wanted to see. I’d make a point to visit crowded museums and mediocre cafés solely with the intention of becoming a better traveler and a better travel writer—I never wanted to have a conversation with somebody where they said “you went to insert city here and didn’t go to insert activity/museum/restaurant here?!”
I’d return home from trips exhausted—and exhausted with myself. Seeing the things I was supposed to see and eating at the places where I was supposed to eat had become the sole impetus for my vacation. Somewhere among that, I forgot to leave room in the itinerary for, well, having fun.
That changed when I got an invitation I couldn’t refuse. A week in Patagonia, leaving in six days. I didn’t have time to research and plan and make a map of all the places I want to visit. In truth, I wasn’t even 100 percent sure where I was actually going until we got there. I was familiar with the broader sweeps of what a Patagonia trip might look like, of course, having seen photos of El Chalten and having heard about epic hiking trips in Torres del Paine. But when I looked on the map, I couldn’t even find the new lodge where we’d be staying. I tried to figure out what the weather would be like when I arrived, but I had no idea where the nearest town was. So I gave up trying and decided to sit back and just let the trip happen. After all, I was traveling with Extraordinary Journeys—a luxury safari operator I’d traveled with before—and I knew I’d be in safe hands.
I received a general itinerary for the trip, complete with specific flight times, airport pickups, and hotel information, but I had only been in Chile for a few hours when we first went off script. After an afternoon walking tour of Santiago, I hopped in the car for what I thought was a ride back to our hotel. Absorbed in conversation with my travel companions, whom I’d just met, I didn’t realize where we were going until we pulled onto a dirt road behind an abandoned carnival. There, we saw a small terminal with a fleet of helicopters. I began to feel loose-limbed and dizzy with panic. I had never been in a helicopter before and I was terrified.
I didn’t want to seem like a total wimp in front of my new travel buddies, so instead of waiting for them in the terminal, I buckled myself into my seat, donned a headset, and sent a quick “in case I die in a helicopter crash I love you forever” text to my sisters and my husband while I practiced my box breathing: inhale for four counts, hold for four counts, exhale for four counts, hold for four counts, repeat.
As we lifted off, the anxiety drained out of my body. We were floating. I was absolutely entranced by the way the pink afternoon light splashed across the city. I felt like a flower petal drifting on a light spring breeze; I felt like I was on drugs. We landed on top of a mountain in the Andes for a champagne toast and all I could think about was how incredible and improbable it was that I was right here, right now. To hell with the itinerary–this was living.
Then, before the crack of dawn the next morning, we were on our way to Patagonia. Our guides picked us up at the tiny airport in Balmaceda, Chile, and we drove on a dirt road through post-card-worthy mountains and valleys until we reached our next adventure. From the first activity that afternoon—a solo kayak adventure to the jaw-dropping marble caves—the upper limits of my physical abilities were tested. I didn’t have time to worry about the next day’s itinerary because I was too busy trying not to die. I had no choice but to let go of the reins and go with the flow.
What happened when I turned off the planning part of my brain was that I started to enjoy everything in minute detail. Without worrying about what I was going to eat for lunch or how we were going to get from point A to point B—or whether we’d make it back to the hotel before dinner—all I did was sit back and let the days unfold. And after two nights spent at the cozy Mallin Colorado eco-lodge and a day spent trekking across the Exploradores Glacier with our Extraordinary Journeys guides, it was time to venture into Patagonia National Park.
For the rest of the trip, we were based at Explora, a luxury lodge in the middle of nowhere. Every evening after our adventures, we’d shower, change, and meet up with our guide to drink pisco sours in the chic and welcoming lobby living room and choose the next day’s adventure—hiking through glacial valleys in Patagonia National Park, say, or kayaking the crystal clear waters of Lake Cochrane—and each passing day brought more of the same thrills of letting go. I felt deliriously happy and free from normal travel anxieties. I laughed so hard I cried almost every day of the trip.
We had no set plans, and no decisions to make. Each night at dinner, we’d sit at the same table. The server would come over to explain what we were having that night (taking into account dietary restrictions and preferences) and we’d say, “Okay, that sounds great.” And it was great—truly some of the best food I’ve ever had at a hotel: fresh fish, grilled vegetables, savory salads made with local ingredients, and, of course, plenty of Chilean wine.
It’s not quite as simple as saying that letting somebody do the planning for you will make every trip you go on more fun. It might just be that it’s impossible to make a mistake in choosing your own adventure in Patagonia. Each time we had a new guide, we’d ask them what their favorite hike or activity in the park was and each time they’d have some variation of “they’re all great.” “I love all my children equally,” we’d joke. It might have been a company policy, but it also felt true—in Patagonia, it’s all hits, no skips.
It’s like they took the world's most beautiful places and put them in a blender, ending up with ice-cold Caribbean blue waters, epic mountain landscapes that could be straight out of New Zealand, flamingos you might expect to see in a tropical oasis perched across glacial lakes, vibrantly colored orchids that would look right at home in Southeast Asia dotting the scrubby hills. Even the animals feel like something out of a fairytale—the camel-lama-deer hybrid called the guanaco, the bunny-squirrel-cat mix called the vizcacha, and the pumas, who, as the hotel will explain, are always watching. (Even if you don’t see a puma on your trip, you can rest assured that a puma saw you.)
Not all trips can be visits to an all-inclusive luxury lodge in one of the most beautiful places on earth. But the most important lesson I learned is to leave room for fun, without worrying about checking things off your bucket list. There’s still so much of Patagonia–and the world–that I haven’t seen, but from now on, I’m going to do it differently. More YOLO, less FOMO.