If in doubt, trust others and just go with the flow.

The first time I took the ferry across the picturesque Kootenay Lake, I was stuck sitting on my motorcycle because the kickstand had snapped. With nothing to see from here but the blue sky and other cars, my mind began to wander back to all the ferry-related adventures my partner, Aidan, and I had gotten ourselves into.

CAMPFIRES IN A TINDER BOX

The Kootenay region, with its grey rocks and conifer forests, is surprisingly similar to southern Chile, where we had made up our mind to camp on Playa Nigue Norte. A small river prevented us from turning west toward the Pacific Ocean, but our map promised a bridge. It turned out to be a suspension foot bridge. Below it, at the bottom of a concrete ramp, sat a small red cable ferry. The tiny platform was big enough for two cars and a yellow sign above the small captain’s cabin said Servicio Gratuito. So we rode on and let it glide us across.

On the other side, a bouncy dirt road led into a pine forest along the beach where dozens of families had set up camp. They smiled and waved for us to join them. In true Chilean fashion, meat was grilling over little campfires everywhere, and the smoky barbeque smell infused the salty air. After a long day’s ride, we had little energy for socializing in Spanish, and I knew I wouldn’t sleep a wink with all the fires crackling sparks into the branches above. 

Waving back, we ploughed up the sandy track to a deserted beach and pitched camp far away from the towering trees. The wind whipped up the sea at sunset, but a small dune protected us from the cool spray wafting inland. We cooked sausages over a fire and relaxed with a bottle of Chilean red wine. Luckily, the pines didn’t go up in flames during the night, and the forest was abuzz with breakfast preparations as we returned to the little red ferry in the morning.

THE INADEQUATE BOAT

Other travellers’ photos of laden bikes precariously persuaded along slippery, narrow planks and manhandled into barely water-worthy vessels by dozens of helping hands have always made me wonder if I’d dare do the same with my precious steed. What would justify risking dropping everything that makes my travels possible into the water, never to be seen again?

The question remained rhetorical until Venezuela. Lake Maracaibo was famous for its nightly lightning storms, and we’d heard of a viewing platform where we might be allowed to camp. Suddenly the road ended in a jagged asphalt…