Sleep deprived and disheveled, I stumbled off the last leg of redeye flights from Missoula to Santiago. The cobwebs cleared on the stunning drive from the airport to our lodge, nestled at the base of an impressive volcano near the Pacific coastline. By the time we completed a tour of the property and checked into our rooms, it was time for an early dinner. I’m wired to grab a quick bite and get on with things, but I would soon learn that our hosts took dinner seriously. Our meal lasted about four hours, which allowed the sommelier ample time to acquaint us with his fine cellar. I may not possess the most discerning nose, but the pours were fantastic and there seemed to be a bottomless supply (our television crew would act as the sounder to test those depths at the aptly named “Yan Kee Way” lodge over the course of the next week.)
When dinner finally ended at 9PM, we retired to our cabin to prep for the 8am crew call. In the morning we would begin production on an instructional flyfishing series, my first assignment as lead producer. As was modus operandi in our world of outdoor television, this concept was slap dicked together by figureheads and I was very recently handed the reigns and an unreasonable deadline. We hadn’t yet begun production and we were already behind. For the moment, I was more concerned about the damn audio equipment, and in my compromised state I attempted to attach receivers to transmitters and find enough working cables and batteries. As I was struggling with my task I felt an odd sensation and looked down to see a tarantula resting on the top of my forefoot. I shrieked like a schoolgirl and stamped the silver-dollar sized arachnid to the floor, which left an impressive stain of blood and guts on the tile (I would come to learn that these harmless creatures are called Chicken Spiders, so named for their docile behavior.)
My jarred circadian rhythms pulled me from slumber at 2:00AM. The travel and wine had settled into my bones and the day held the promise of bumpy boat rides book-ended by long commutes on bad roads in a rig with a stiff suspension. I donned my Brooks’ Beasts, plugged my Ipod into my ears, and went outside to stretch. The night was perfectly cool and slightly humid, like a July dawn on the banks of a desert river. I found the perfect tune for the moment on my new portable electronic device; one of the jams my wife had uploaded (or downloaded?) from the library of rom-com soundtracks and 90’s gangsta’ rap that she and her sister had compiled in college. Between “Destiny’s Child” and “Mike Jones” I was inspired to stretch my legs.
There was only one road leading into and out of the lodge and from what I had gathered, it dead-ended down to the left a few miles. It all seemed pretty simple, hang a Louie out of the compound and mosey down the two-lane for a piece, then turn around and maybe have enough time for a quick nap before coffee and breakfast. Though there was a large wooden sign reading “Yan Kee Way” at the lodge entrance, for good measure, I left my t-shirt hanging on an adjacent post, which would be highly visible from the main road.
The fresh night air filled my lungs. My legs loosened and the blood flow returned following 24 hours of sedentary travel. There was nothing to worry about out here, no grizzly bears, sasquatches, or armed bandits. I was on the only road in an otherwise remote jungle wilderness near the tip of the South American continent, the shifty tectonic plates deep beneath my feet perhaps the biggest hazard as I began to churn up the miles. My short itinerary negated the need to bring any water.
Between playlists I listened to the night for any nocturnal howling or screeching, but the jungle was church-quiet. Out of my peripheral, I caught a glimpse of some animal slip across the road, but couldn’t determine whether or not it was indeed a Pudu, the tiny native deer species that I badly wished to see. I came to the end of the road where it simply looped back around. I figured I’d been out here for an hour or so, and my retinas detected the faintest hint of light on the landscape when I turned around. I should be back at the lodge right about sunrise at 7:00 AM.
I came to a bridge over a small Rio and removed my head phones to listen to the burbling as a light fog lifted over the inky water. Naturally, the angler in me scanned the swirling pockets and slicks for rising fish. I felt good, alive, and refreshed, as the last of the fermented grapes perspired into the atmosphere. I was getting hungry and thirsty, though, and was delighted to find a familiar bramble of perfectly ripe blackberries alongside the road. The juicy fruits provided hydration and sustenance, and I resumed my jog.
My eyes wandered from my path as a flock of parrots flew overhead, and at that moment my foot landed in an unseen pothole and I rolled my ankle rather severely. Years as a pickup rebounder and defensive specialist had relieved me of much of the attaching fibers in my right ankle, but I had just managed to sever a few more. The landscape was bathed in full sunlight now, and I assumed my crew must be astir back at the lodge. “The damn sign to the entrance had to be just ahead?” I refueled with more blackberries and limped forth. The first truckload of locals on their morning commute approached and the driver slowed down to get a better look. The rig was an old modified flatbed with roughly 20 souls riding in the back. The entire congregation turned their heads in unison to gawk at the purple, hairy gargoyle limping down the road. I’m sure there was some debate as to whether to offer aid to the poor critter, or hit the gas pedal, and in the end, the driver made the latter decision.
The am traffic increased along with my anxiety and the growing realization that I may, somehow, have become lost on a straight road with no arteries. My suspicion that I had overshot the lodge was confirmed when another truckload of workers passed and I locked eyes with a local wearing a Cheshire grin…and my t-shirt.
At that point I stopped running and the gravity of my dehydration set in, along with the intense throbbing in my ankle. Meanwhile, back at the lodge, I was most certainly tardy for my own crew call and my colleagues were likely beginning to ponder my whereabouts. Unbeknownst to me, a search party had been dispatched to be on the looksee for something suspicious.
A white van rolled up alongside of me and a group of highly amused Chileans instructed me to get in the van. The driver, who spoke much better English to my Spanish, asked me if I had any idea how far I was from the lodge? The kilometers piled up on the trip back and I arrived to a zero’s welcome, my cohorts awaiting my arrival in front of the main entrance, boats loaded, with their gear all-shipshape.
By all estimations, I had likely completed my first marathon in the wee morning hours in the Chilean countryside. I had so enjoyed myself, that I sprinkled a little “nightmarching” into the schedule on future forays into unfamiliar territory. I ran in the dark in regions across the country and in many foreign lands. Despite the obvious risks associated with solo night-jogging in places like Guatemala, nightmarching was a great way to stretch out and gain bearings following international travel itineraries.
Henceforth, I brought neon t-shirts along, packed sustenance and fluids, and made a more careful mental note of the locale of our accommodations. I cut back my miles from that initial exploit in Chile, and ran with the confidence that, in a pinch, I could survive on local flora until somebody found me, wet and hungry, and returned me to my rightful owners.
