Chapter 10: Over the Canal and Into the Unknown
Cycling out of Costa Rica and across Panama, I faced searing heat, crumbling gear, and the most dangerous roads of the journey so far. This chapter ends not with a border crossing, but with the uncertain promise of a boat—a path forward into Colombia, if fate allowed.
Three days after planting the final tree at La Suerte, I pedaled back into the matrix of agricultural lands, beyond La Suerte Biological Field Station’s borders, toward the Caribbean coast. My legs, unaccustomed to cycling after three weeks of tree planting, began cramping around mile 45. The symptoms escalated quickly, but with persistence I pushed through—covering 105 miles that day. It was a harsh reintroduction to life on the bike.
The contrast between the quiet rhythm of tree planting and the noise and friction of the road was jarring. After finally reaching Limón and continuing down the coast for many more miles, I eventually arrived at the area where I had intended to camp, just above the beach. But instead, I pressed on to the heart of a modest tourist town and checked into a small, single-story motel, hoping to reset my body—especially my legs.
The next morning I continued south. The cramps eased but lingered. By midday I was in Panama and a new problem emerged: my bike shoes—lightly used, my size, and gifted by a Texas shop—began to fall apart. Exposure to direct sunlight in the shop’s front window had taken a hidden toll over the years, warping the toe boxes and degrading the glue that bonded the soles. The right sole detached completely. I strapped it back together, but doing so tethered me dangerously to the pedals. The toe boxes had also been crushing my feet since I left La Suerte. Initially, I blamed the toe box discomfort I was feeling on detraining, just like the cramps, but the truth was now unavoidable, the shoes were the problem in both cases. After two days of suffering, I cut the toe boxes open. Relief was immediate, but replacement became even more urgent.
On Day 163 of the tour—just three days post-La Suerte—I turned inland toward Panama’s Cordillera Central. From that juncture, no roads continued east along the Caribbean coastline. The climb began into a mist-laced mountain range that splits the country in two. On the Caribbean side: rainforest stretching to the sea. On the Pacific side, as I would soon learn: a savanna-like ecosystem that was dry, dusty, and hot.
The ascent offered spectacular beauty—small villages nestled among a forest festooned with air plants, alive with the calls of birds and the haunting roar of howler monkeys. Flocks of parrots passed overhead, and other unseen creatures stirred in the underbrush as I slowly ascended on difficult grades. The cool mountain air, combined with filtered light through massive overhanging trees, made it feel as if the land itself were whispering thanks for the trees we’d planted.
But beauty gave way to volatility. The wind picked up. Rain followed. One gust nearly blew me off the road entirely. I found myself standing on the opposite shoulder, having crossed the median involuntarily, questioning how much farther I could go that night—or whether I could go any farther at all.
Just a few miles farther, I found refuge at a ridge-top eatery that offered more than food. The owner welcomed me with warmth, served a hearty meal, extended friendship, and offered a free place to pitch my tent for the night. But my tent’s waterproofing gave out that evening, and by morning, everything was soaked through. Only my air mattress kept me off the wet ground and reasonably dry. When the eatery reopened at dawn, I lingered over a warm breakfast and several cups of coffee, savoring the kindness before packing up my soggy gear and pushing on.
The descent revealed a harsh new world. Looking back, I could see a stationary cloud bank clinging to the ridgeline—rainforest mist halted by furnace-like heat. I’d remember that visual months later in the Andes, descending toward Salta through a similar cloud bank. But awe turned to ordeal. I joined the Pan-American Highway. The sun intensified with punishing fury, likely amplified by engine heat and asphalt. I detoured 20 miles into David, Panama, in search of shoes but was unlucky. I turned back toward Panama City, still 300 miles east.
The Pan-American Highway in Panama would prove to be the most dangerous stretch of the entire tour—and of any I’d ridden by bicycle. While a wide shoulder was often present, it was frequently strewn with debris: stones, wood, trash, metal shards. Shade was nonexistent, save for the rare shrub with the audacity to lean toward the asphalt. Still, amidst the intensity, I found myself occasionally breaking into a fleeting smile at the absurdity of my situation—trucks thundering past, no relief from the sun, and temperatures soaring beyond 110°F (43°C). I rationed energy, drank constantly, focused on nose breathing to minimize water loss, and kept my eyes fixed on the white line and the shoulder when it was available. By sundown each day, I was a husk of salt and sweat—my nervous system rattled, my reserves nearly gone.
I pushed on—through Panama’s lowlands and closer each day to Panama City. This was no longer adventure. This was survival. Closing a dangerous gap to refocus and begin again on the other side.
On Day 167 of Climate Zero, I reached the Panama Canal. The final miles, as I approached the bridge, were a gauntlet of concrete barriers, road construction, overloaded lanes, and fast-moving, unforgiving traffic. To survive the ordeal, I entered what I call a "warrior state"—a mindset I'd first adopted instinctively while approaching Sofia, Bulgaria, during my 2019 bicycle journey, Le Tour de Europe, which spanned from Scotland to Istanbul. In Sofia, I had to navigate massive traffic circles at high speed, with trolley tracks threatening to grab my tires and a chaotic tangle of buses, trucks, cars, livestock, and pedestrians throwing up barriers and hazards at every turn. I learned to push outward with equal force, asserting my line and claiming the space I needed to survive.
In this state, the cyclist becomes a sentinel—grounded, focused, outwardly aware of everything near and far. The warrior embodies unwavering concentration, a silent wall against threat. Not aggressive, but immovable. Not fearful, but sharpened by intensity.
As I began the ascent toward the bridge—its structure clearly visible ahead—I gripped my bicycle with one hand and, with the other, pulled my Pixel 7 from the center pocket of my jersey, double-clicking the power button to launch the camera, then instinctively swiping with my thumb to switch to video mode. Traffic surged around me—horns sounding, indifferent or celebratory, I couldn't tell. The bridge rose steeply, and as I climbed, the vast waters of the Panama Canal and its exit to the Pacific Ocean spread out on either side while the unobstructed skyline of Panama City slowly emerged ahead.
Here I was, crossing one of the world’s most iconic engineering marvels entirely under my own power, after pedaling from 54° north across the full length of North and Central America. The moment felt suspended in time—not silent, but still, a pocket of emotional clarity carved from chaos. In that space, I redefined my limits. Inside, I was shouting with joy and relief, the culmination of months of effort roaring through my veins. This was a triumph that belonged to me and the kindness of strangers—earned through networking and sheer will, etched into the arc of the journey and the fiber of my being. A quiet declaration of what becomes possible when we dare to begin, and keep going.
I spent two nights in the city, making final plans for my transition to Cartí. During that time, I arranged passage with a lancha captain for a two-day trip from Cartí to Capurganá, Colombia, via Puerto Obaldía, Panama—where I would receive my exit and entry stamps. The captain’s WhatsApp number, a fragile lifeline of traveler-to-traveler intelligence, was tucked into an online document passed around like contraband. In the absence of official infrastructure—no road, no public ferry—such scraps of information became vital links for those of us attempting the seemingly impossible: navigating the watery passage around the Darién Gap and into South America.
To reach Cartí, where I planned to camp on the beach the night before my rendezvous with the lancha captain, I'd have to cross the mountains—brutally steep but far less high in this part of Panama—back to the Caribbean coast. In the meantime, I visited a bike shop and replaced my sunglasses, shoes, and other damaged gear. I also visited the Panama Canal as a tourist and enjoyed the opportunity to lean over the rail from the observation decks, imagining the immense history that had unfolded there since construction began in 1904.
Elsewhere in town, I met a U.S. citizen who told a convincing story—of a military career, a wife, and an incident that had left him with no cash and no options. According to his account, a cab had driven off with his belongings, including his passport and military ID. We shared a meal at the location where we’d met by chance. Hours passed, and I decided to trust him. But after I withdrew $325 from an ATM—a significant amount given my limited resources—he vanished, never repaying me despite repeated promises.
Generosity sometimes comes at a painful cost. It hurt—but so does life, especially the hard parts. Still, few things give back more than offering help. I reminded myself of that truth, exhaled, and carried on—choosing to document the encounter not with bitterness, but as another gift from the tour, a reminder that growth often walks alongside disappointment.
Leaving the city, I headed east toward the remote Caribbean port of Cartí. There, I hoped to circumvent the Darién Gap—a roadless, wild, and infamous swath of jungle shared by Panama and Colombia. The following day, at a guarded post along the road to Cartí, I was stopped by members of the local Guna Yala (Kuna) community who own and protect this stretch of land. They were kind but firm: to pass, I would need to pay a small fee and, more critically, prove I had legitimate business in Cartí—including a verifiable booking with a lancha captain. Unfortunately, all I had was a brief, impersonal WhatsApp exchange.
As the Guna Yala began piecing together who my captain might be, I was informed that he’d been arrested the day before somewhere along the very coastline I needed to traverse. They never disclosed the details, but murmurs suggested it might involve human smuggling—migrants fleeing Venezuela or Ecuador.
Luckily, one English-speaking Guna Yala man had taken a liking to my story and began advocating on my behalf. He offered several options: I could pitch my tent in their nearby village while I awaited alternative passage, and he also mentioned the possibility of cargo boats that sometimes accepted passengers on short notice. Staying close would be key.
I was stranded, with few options other than to wait—or turn back and attempt an overland detour or fly from Panama City to Colombia. After nearly three hours of negotiation, I accepted his generous offer. Soon I was climbing steep stairs cut into the jungle floor, arriving at a hilltop compound where I was met with friendly curiosity. Someone offered me coffee, which I gladly accepted.
But only a few sips in—commotion below. At the guard post, voices rose. A cargo boat was departing from Cartí, and I was urged to get to the beach as fast as possible.
The man who had helped me shared one final gift: a contact on the island where he predicted the boat would land and I would disembark—far from Puerto Obaldía but still along the remote Panamanian coast, near sea turtles, Guna Yala settlements, and clear blue water.
I clipped into my pedals, shouted my thanks, and pushed hard toward the sea.
The contrast between the quiet rhythm of tree planting and the noise and friction of the road was jarring. After finally reaching Limón and continuing down the coast for many more miles, I eventually arrived at the area where I had intended to camp, just above the beach. But instead, I pressed on to the heart of a modest tourist town and checked into a small, single-story motel, hoping to reset my body—especially my legs.
The next morning I continued south. The cramps eased but lingered. By midday I was in Panama and a new problem emerged: my bike shoes—lightly used, my size, and gifted by a Texas shop—began to fall apart. Exposure to direct sunlight in the shop’s front window had taken a hidden toll over the years, warping the toe boxes and degrading the glue that bonded the soles. The right sole detached completely. I strapped it back together, but doing so tethered me dangerously to the pedals. The toe boxes had also been crushing my feet since I left La Suerte. Initially, I blamed the toe box discomfort I was feeling on detraining, just like the cramps, but the truth was now unavoidable, the shoes were the problem in both cases. After two days of suffering, I cut the toe boxes open. Relief was immediate, but replacement became even more urgent.
On Day 163 of the tour—just three days post-La Suerte—I turned inland toward Panama’s Cordillera Central. From that juncture, no roads continued east along the Caribbean coastline. The climb began into a mist-laced mountain range that splits the country in two. On the Caribbean side: rainforest stretching to the sea. On the Pacific side, as I would soon learn: a savanna-like ecosystem that was dry, dusty, and hot.
The ascent offered spectacular beauty—small villages nestled among a forest festooned with air plants, alive with the calls of birds and the haunting roar of howler monkeys. Flocks of parrots passed overhead, and other unseen creatures stirred in the underbrush as I slowly ascended on difficult grades. The cool mountain air, combined with filtered light through massive overhanging trees, made it feel as if the land itself were whispering thanks for the trees we’d planted.
But beauty gave way to volatility. The wind picked up. Rain followed. One gust nearly blew me off the road entirely. I found myself standing on the opposite shoulder, having crossed the median involuntarily, questioning how much farther I could go that night—or whether I could go any farther at all.
Just a few miles farther, I found refuge at a ridge-top eatery that offered more than food. The owner welcomed me with warmth, served a hearty meal, extended friendship, and offered a free place to pitch my tent for the night. But my tent’s waterproofing gave out that evening, and by morning, everything was soaked through. Only my air mattress kept me off the wet ground and reasonably dry. When the eatery reopened at dawn, I lingered over a warm breakfast and several cups of coffee, savoring the kindness before packing up my soggy gear and pushing on.
The descent revealed a harsh new world. Looking back, I could see a stationary cloud bank clinging to the ridgeline—rainforest mist halted by furnace-like heat. I’d remember that visual months later in the Andes, descending toward Salta through a similar cloud bank. But awe turned to ordeal. I joined the Pan-American Highway. The sun intensified with punishing fury, likely amplified by engine heat and asphalt. I detoured 20 miles into David, Panama, in search of shoes but was unlucky. I turned back toward Panama City, still 300 miles east.
The Pan-American Highway in Panama would prove to be the most dangerous stretch of the entire tour—and of any I’d ridden by bicycle. While a wide shoulder was often present, it was frequently strewn with debris: stones, wood, trash, metal shards. Shade was nonexistent, save for the rare shrub with the audacity to lean toward the asphalt. Still, amidst the intensity, I found myself occasionally breaking into a fleeting smile at the absurdity of my situation—trucks thundering past, no relief from the sun, and temperatures soaring beyond 110°F (43°C). I rationed energy, drank constantly, focused on nose breathing to minimize water loss, and kept my eyes fixed on the white line and the shoulder when it was available. By sundown each day, I was a husk of salt and sweat—my nervous system rattled, my reserves nearly gone.
I pushed on—through Panama’s lowlands and closer each day to Panama City. This was no longer adventure. This was survival. Closing a dangerous gap to refocus and begin again on the other side.
On Day 167 of Climate Zero, I reached the Panama Canal. The final miles, as I approached the bridge, were a gauntlet of concrete barriers, road construction, overloaded lanes, and fast-moving, unforgiving traffic. To survive the ordeal, I entered what I call a "warrior state"—a mindset I'd first adopted instinctively while approaching Sofia, Bulgaria, during my 2019 bicycle journey, Le Tour de Europe, which spanned from Scotland to Istanbul. In Sofia, I had to navigate massive traffic circles at high speed, with trolley tracks threatening to grab my tires and a chaotic tangle of buses, trucks, cars, livestock, and pedestrians throwing up barriers and hazards at every turn. I learned to push outward with equal force, asserting my line and claiming the space I needed to survive.
In this state, the cyclist becomes a sentinel—grounded, focused, outwardly aware of everything near and far. The warrior embodies unwavering concentration, a silent wall against threat. Not aggressive, but immovable. Not fearful, but sharpened by intensity.
As I began the ascent toward the bridge—its structure clearly visible ahead—I gripped my bicycle with one hand and, with the other, pulled my Pixel 7 from the center pocket of my jersey, double-clicking the power button to launch the camera, then instinctively swiping with my thumb to switch to video mode. Traffic surged around me—horns sounding, indifferent or celebratory, I couldn't tell. The bridge rose steeply, and as I climbed, the vast waters of the Panama Canal and its exit to the Pacific Ocean spread out on either side while the unobstructed skyline of Panama City slowly emerged ahead.
Here I was, crossing one of the world’s most iconic engineering marvels entirely under my own power, after pedaling from 54° north across the full length of North and Central America. The moment felt suspended in time—not silent, but still, a pocket of emotional clarity carved from chaos. In that space, I redefined my limits. Inside, I was shouting with joy and relief, the culmination of months of effort roaring through my veins. This was a triumph that belonged to me and the kindness of strangers—earned through networking and sheer will, etched into the arc of the journey and the fiber of my being. A quiet declaration of what becomes possible when we dare to begin, and keep going.
I spent two nights in the city, making final plans for my transition to Cartí. During that time, I arranged passage with a lancha captain for a two-day trip from Cartí to Capurganá, Colombia, via Puerto Obaldía, Panama—where I would receive my exit and entry stamps. The captain’s WhatsApp number, a fragile lifeline of traveler-to-traveler intelligence, was tucked into an online document passed around like contraband. In the absence of official infrastructure—no road, no public ferry—such scraps of information became vital links for those of us attempting the seemingly impossible: navigating the watery passage around the Darién Gap and into South America.
To reach Cartí, where I planned to camp on the beach the night before my rendezvous with the lancha captain, I'd have to cross the mountains—brutally steep but far less high in this part of Panama—back to the Caribbean coast. In the meantime, I visited a bike shop and replaced my sunglasses, shoes, and other damaged gear. I also visited the Panama Canal as a tourist and enjoyed the opportunity to lean over the rail from the observation decks, imagining the immense history that had unfolded there since construction began in 1904.
Elsewhere in town, I met a U.S. citizen who told a convincing story—of a military career, a wife, and an incident that had left him with no cash and no options. According to his account, a cab had driven off with his belongings, including his passport and military ID. We shared a meal at the location where we’d met by chance. Hours passed, and I decided to trust him. But after I withdrew $325 from an ATM—a significant amount given my limited resources—he vanished, never repaying me despite repeated promises.
Generosity sometimes comes at a painful cost. It hurt—but so does life, especially the hard parts. Still, few things give back more than offering help. I reminded myself of that truth, exhaled, and carried on—choosing to document the encounter not with bitterness, but as another gift from the tour, a reminder that growth often walks alongside disappointment.
Leaving the city, I headed east toward the remote Caribbean port of Cartí. There, I hoped to circumvent the Darién Gap—a roadless, wild, and infamous swath of jungle shared by Panama and Colombia. The following day, at a guarded post along the road to Cartí, I was stopped by members of the local Guna Yala (Kuna) community who own and protect this stretch of land. They were kind but firm: to pass, I would need to pay a small fee and, more critically, prove I had legitimate business in Cartí—including a verifiable booking with a lancha captain. Unfortunately, all I had was a brief, impersonal WhatsApp exchange.
As the Guna Yala began piecing together who my captain might be, I was informed that he’d been arrested the day before somewhere along the very coastline I needed to traverse. They never disclosed the details, but murmurs suggested it might involve human smuggling—migrants fleeing Venezuela or Ecuador.
Luckily, one English-speaking Guna Yala man had taken a liking to my story and began advocating on my behalf. He offered several options: I could pitch my tent in their nearby village while I awaited alternative passage, and he also mentioned the possibility of cargo boats that sometimes accepted passengers on short notice. Staying close would be key.
I was stranded, with few options other than to wait—or turn back and attempt an overland detour or fly from Panama City to Colombia. After nearly three hours of negotiation, I accepted his generous offer. Soon I was climbing steep stairs cut into the jungle floor, arriving at a hilltop compound where I was met with friendly curiosity. Someone offered me coffee, which I gladly accepted.
But only a few sips in—commotion below. At the guard post, voices rose. A cargo boat was departing from Cartí, and I was urged to get to the beach as fast as possible.
The man who had helped me shared one final gift: a contact on the island where he predicted the boat would land and I would disembark—far from Puerto Obaldía but still along the remote Panamanian coast, near sea turtles, Guna Yala settlements, and clear blue water.
I clipped into my pedals, shouted my thanks, and pushed hard toward the sea.