The Plan, of sorts

My name, among others, is Scott. You might remember me from such ridiculous adventures as Australia, New Zealand, Israel, Western Europe, and multiple trans-America roadtrips. I have a funny predilection for writing about these adventures. These writings have a funny predilection for falling into the wrong hands. My boss knows I found hallucinogenic cacti during field work. My mother knows a sizable chunk of the people I've slept with.

However, my last trip, 10,000 miles from St. Louis to California to New York, has nary a word written about it. I think I lost my creative spark. I could do something superlative, like hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and back in 24 hours in the heat of August, but it doesn't translate into good writing (Also, I don't advise doing it). I could have had soak-to-my-bones glee singing strip karaoke with strangers in some dive bar, but that's dull to read. I went to Burning Man this year, something wholly out of the ordinary, but you'd have to be on heavy drugs to make sense of it enough to write, and even more to comprehend what's been written.

A 10,000 mile solo roadtrip was not enough to reignite my creative juices. We clearly need to try something stupider.

Lets try something new. Lets get off the tourist beaten track. Lets go somewhere where I don't have my own form of transportation. Somewhere where I don't have an itinerary, and really only a faint whisper of a plan. Somewhere I don't even speak the native language. Let's go to South America.

For the next 100 days, starting tomorrow, I'll be backpacking the continent, from Quito, Ecuador to Buenos Aires, Argentina, via the southern tip of Tierra del Fuego. The Equator to nearly the Antarctic Circle, and back again. I have no idea how far that is, and I'm happier that way. Ignorance is bliss when your main form of movement is the Latin American version of Greyhound, the ironically-named slowboat where toilet hygiene is matched only by a deep commitment to passenger safety.

The term 'backpacking' is key here. I was kind of a pussy in Australia with my rolling luggage. Now, my home is my depressingly heavy pack. I live off my back. From now on, I am a turtle, except instead of offering protection, my shell makes me highly vulnerable to mugging and petty theft alike.

I have plans, sure. I plan to go to the Amazon, and the Andes. I plan to go to the Bolivian salt flats and the Chilean desert. I plan to hike the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. I plan to get as far south as possible, chasing the start of summer. I plan to live like a local in the small towns, and party my gringo face off in big cities. And if I survive it all, I plan to drink up the biologist bukkake known as the Galapagos.

Oh, and I plan to use an alias, a fake name, because using my real name would just be too easy and logical. For the next few months, you and the local police authorities will know me as Bryce Walker.

So you see, I have many plans. I just don't know when, where, how, or how I'm going to afford it. And don't even try to ask 'why?'