Happy trails to you.

After two days of blindly following Emily around Vina del Mar, it was time for Chasley and I to strike out on our own on Monday. Equipped with my elementary Spanish and a fair amount of experience on the public transit systems of foreign countries, we boarded a Micro and headed north to Con Con. When I felt sure that we had passed the landmarks Emily had described, I asked the bus driver to stop-- in the middle of nowhere, I assure you. The panic started to set in only when the Micro sped off in a cloud of dust and I looked around to see myself and Chasley-- who is delightful but very little help in Latin America-- stranded in Po-dunk, Chile.

I had been instructed to meet Maria, our guide for the day, at a gas station... a gas station that was nowhere to be seen. We began to bumble around, catching the attention of more than a few. I'd like to say that I was relaxed; I am, after all, a seasoned traveler. But no. My heart raced, and I grabbed Chasley's hand and told her to walk fast and like she had a purpose. I shot up a quick prayer of praise that it was broad daylight, and I plunged ahead.

Voila! The gas station appeared just around a curve. Chilean gas stations aren't like American gas stations: there is no convenient store as part of the package, just a few pumping stations. I decided I didn't want to loiter around the pumping station since I clearly didn't have a car to pump gas into, so Chasley and I sat on the opposite side of the road in front of an empanada shop. Just two blonde sitting ducks.

Maria showed up sooner than later, and we started the second leg of our adventure. We headed to Maria's ranch and were saddled up with horses along with the crew of AirFrance-- polite but not interested in speaking English-- and hit the ol' dusty trail. We ambled through multiple terrains-- the coast of the Pacific, sand dunes like you might see in Aladdin (I sang "Arabian Nights" more than once, but it was a tough crowd), and pine tree forests. Just when I would take out my camera, the leader would yell, "Gallope!" and my horse, Dina, would take off at a breakneck pace. Now, I love riding horses and have a fair amount of experience... but Chilean saddles are very different than American saddles and running full-speed-ahead on the coast is a little different than a gentle lope through a pasture.

Unable to converse in Spanish with our guides or in French with our comrades, I was limited to making small talk with my horse, Dina. Most of our chats consisted of my encouraging Dina to only do what she was comfortable with, and if that meant walking then I could just suck it up and amble along. Apparently she felt pretty good about the speed we were going, though, so away we went. With no saddle horn and rope reins in lieu of leather, I had to put a lot of faith in Dina and more than a little faith in my inner thighs. Neither failed me, but I suspect both were equally tired. I don't know how Dina felt the next day, but my thighs, back, and butt were brutalized.

The ride was beautiful and, when I wasn't begging God to let me live, the adrenaline rush was amazing. And I mean, how often do you gallop along the coast of the Pacific Ocean?

We were able to catch a bus back to Vina afterward, and then the third and final leg of our solo adventure began. In broken Spanish, I conveyed to the driver where I needed to go, but he really thought I should take a short cut. Practically thrown off the bus, Chasley and I started home. I managed to get in touch with Emily who assured me I was on the right street and that I should be heading in the direction of the coast. Well, Chasley, always one to have a "feeling," just "felt" like the coast was in the opposite direction. So away we went... in the opposite direction... in the wrong direction.

We did make it home eventually... where I immediately put myself in a hot shower. I just wish I had known how to say "Ben-Gay" in Spanish.