I spent seven nights in mile-high Panajachel, another one of my favorite places in Central America.  One approaches from the east onto a plateau after a good, winding climb.  The deepest lake in Central America, Lake Atitlán, bordered by three volcanoes, is a dazzling sight.

    I parked in a grassy area outside an event building on the grounds of Hotel Tzanjuju, my tailgate open to a brick wall barrier above the shore of the lake.  It was one of my better camping locations, albeit a bit unsheltered.  I was allowed to use the bathroom, patio, and lobby.

    Rains came and went, and naps with them.  I wandered around the hippie town, its markets and shops, and took sketchy boat rides to the communities of San Marcos, San Juan, San Pedro, Santa Cruz La Laguna, and Santiago Atitlán.

    From Panajachel, it was a circuitous route for one night at Fuentes Georginas, a nice little “resort” at 2414 m (7919 ft) in the Quetzaltenango Department of southwestern Guatemala.  It was a splendid, winding drive past my first great visions of contour farming.  I camped in the parking lot of this place, built around the cascading falls and pools of thermal water.

    Soon, I was in El Salvador, where I camped at the Casa Cristal on Cerro Verde, and joined a group of people who hiked to the rim of Volcan Santa Ana, the country’s highest volcano.  On the way back to the van, I languished in a ghost village, abandoned during the volcano’s eruption in 2005.

    It was in the capital of San Salvador that I got my van worked on for the second time, stayed in a proper hotel, filled up my propane canisters, had my first pupusas (small round corncakes filled with beans, cheese, and/or meat), uploaded pictures, and planned the rest of El Salvador.  

    Then it was north to stay at my third San Ignacio of the trip.  I spent two nights in a remote parking area of Entre Pinos, some sort of resort/animal preserve (peacocks!) where I caught up on writing, hopped a fence and swam in the resort’s closed pool, and ate my peanut butter tortillas.  I also found my favorite pupusería, where I had a lovely chat with some locals and overindulged in their delicious pupusas.

    And then, it got bad.  Bad signage, bad directions, requirements at parks.  I struck out all day, but finally locked in on a place that was 15 km away.  Well, that was the shortest distance.

    I turned off the highway, onto what would be the worst road of my life.  I knew I was in trouble after a few hundred yards, but it was already too late to turn back.  More and more narrow.  No signs of life.  I bottomed out 20-30 times, straddling and falling into ruts, and drove two wheels up on the left embankment.  Then I stopped, my mouth agape and hope all but lost as I stared at what was probably a 60° incline in front of me.  I tried to finesse it a few times and it laughed at me and my spinning tires.  No way to back up, no way to turn around, no way ahead – I was in trouble.  Like, real trouble.  I flashed on my bugout backpack in the topper above me.  I had planned for something like this.  I can take this and that in my backpack…and my laptop bag in front…and my camera bag.  Seriously?  This is where it ends?!  Oh my God.  My van…my roadtrip…

    The finesse game hadn’t worked.  There would be nothing pretty about this.  I closed my eyes and prayed, opened them again, jammed the gas pedal to the floor, threw two wheels dangerously high on the embankment, and launched up and over that hill, crashing onto another, more manageable hill on the other side.  I started shaking and crying.  I had kept it together for long enough – all of it – this “road” and the entire 12,000 km (7,500 miles) before it.

    I trembled for the remaining 5 km of that road, which eventually spit me out onto some sort of paved road.  There were a few people present whose heads snapped as I crashed down out of the jungle.  La Bestia and I limped on to Portezuelo Park.  Somehow.

    Still shaking, with tears in my eyes, I begged the man in the office to tell me there was more than one road out of the place.  In a brutal, matter-of-fact tone, he simply told me, “No.  There’s only one road in and out of here.”  I was devastated.

    I found a camping spot, a bit too close to other people for my taste.  Hmmm.  All their vehicles are pristine – no dust, dirt, nothing.  I returned to the office, asking again about this “one road” in and out, describing the road I had taken.  His eyes widened.  “That’s…not…a road…hasn’t been for years.  It’s for cows and donkeys.”  Had I ignored GPS and stayed on the highway for 5-10 more minutes, I would have come to the actual road.  It was a great lesson: beware of GPS, verifying that the shortest distance is indeed the best route.  If I close my eyes, I can still see that road and taste my desperation.

    I spent a few nights there – coming down, healing.  I needed the ocean.  Badly.  I headed out on the actual road and busted south 96 km to Playa El Tunco, where I paid to pitch my tent for two nights.  There were chickens all about, as was the unforgettable smell of wood smoke and ocean air.

    Additional healing was required just north, at Playa El Zonte, where I stayed three nights at Olas Permanentes, a cool little surfer hotel with tiny rooms for $15 a night.  I spent my days nursing my wounds, walking the beach, stuffing myself with pupusas, catching up on writing, and planning Honduras and Nicaragua.

    I could relate to a street dog frolicking, cleaning himself at the beach.

    Me, too, buddy.