Perceptive Travel

An Atacama Desert Horseback Adventure Gets Kneecapped
Story by Julia Hubbel

An epic horseback tour in the Atacama Desert, anticipated complete with hair flowing in the wind, presents different challenges with an untreated injury along for the ride.

Four a.m., and cold. The kind of biting cold that only high desert can deliver. I carefully rolled over in my sub-zero bag. Thank god for heavy down, I thought. Then, What on earth is this stuff all over me?

I brushed my face. A film of dark powder, as light as flour, smeared my fingers. Much more fell off my face into the bag. Then I felt a light rain landing on my lashes.

Rain? In the Atacama Desert, the supposed driest place on Earth?

I located my headlamp, switched it on, and looked up. The top of the tent was covered with dark brown desert dust. It had been "raining" on me all night, especially through the small hole at the top which, in more typical conditions, was designed to allow condensation out. In these conditions, it was letting dust in.

This dust was so fine that it worked its way right through the tent material. I shone my headlamp around the tent. It looked as though a snowstorm had hit during the night.

But I'm ahead of myself. There were worse discomforts to ride out on this trip.

The Trip of a Lifetime on Horseback

I'm an adventure athlete. Horse riding is my favorite of all the sports to take me to the world's remote places. Under Covid, most of that had either slowed or disappeared, as horse riding concessions hunkered down or closed. I longed for that badass feeling of galloping across open spaces.

October, spring in South America, is the best month to ride in the vast Atacama. The weather is gentler but the travel window is tight. Unicorn Trails, based in the UK, made me an offer I couldn't refuse. The deal was half-price on their nine-day Atacama Desert trip: the guides needed one more rider. I signed up with barely five days to prepare.

I've ridden from Canada to Patagonia in some of the Americas' most gorgeous and challenging country. The Chilean Atacama was a jewel that I had yet to add to my adventure collection. The dry Atacama desert contains unique wildlife and a rich history woven through the harsh, beautiful landscape. In October, this high-altitude, desiccated desert is wickedly cold in the mornings but low 70s F during the day. I needed Diamox for the altitude, along with all kinds of throat sprays, eye drops and other lotions and potions, or risk being mummified if I wasn't prepared. Plus I needed gear for those brutal winds.

I flew into Santiago, then Calama, which is desert central for excursions into the Atacama. There I practiced my terrible Spanish and found last-minute supplies.

The Feeling of Another Planet

The Atacama comprises some 41,000 square miles of stunning and varied landscape stretching along the northern coast of Chile. For a thousand miles in the northern third of this long, thin exclamation point of a nation, the desert hugs the coastline. It has been this dry for millions of years and evidence suggests that parts of it have never seen rain at all. There is enough fog to support various kinds of life like lichens. Life flourishes along the rare riverbeds.

The Atacama is so stark that it's used as the backdrop for Hollywood movies such as Quantum of Solace, for the sets of shows depicting another planet, and even for space research to simulate conditions on the moon or Mars.

I couldn't wait to be astride a spicy, sturdy Criollo horse, my long hair flying behind me as we sped across the great expanses. I wanted to prove myself worthy of such an adventure as I approached the end of my sixties.

Oh, the dreams I had. It was going to be epic indeed.

We'd ride up to eight hours each day, camp under one of the great unspoiled night skies left in the world, and count on our Criollos to get us safely up and down terrifyingly steep mountains with nary a trail, only rocks that our horses had to navigate under the burning Chilean sun.

Our guides were a couple, Macarena and Esteban. The latter was a fine horseman with flowing blond locks gone to grey. Macarena was an ex-gymnastics champ, a tiny, energetic, enthusiastic champagne flute forever bubbling over with happiness. Three of their kids joined us.

They were re-launching their Atacama adventure after two years of quarantine. The opportunity for myself and my fellow rider, Katharina from Germany, was to be part of the new kickoff as Maca and Esteban trained new horses and gave their kids experience.

I was particularly keen on impressing fellow guest Katharina, 30 years old, with my horse skills. I was going to conquer that desert.

Pachamama Has Other Plans

In many parts of South America, Pachamama is the goddess of fertility who also presides over harvests and planting and is revered by the Indigenous peoples of the Andes. She is embodied in the mountains, even causes earthquakes. Pachamama is woven like impermeable thread throughout the culture and deeply into the adopted religions brought by colonizers.

What I didn't know is that She had other plans for my hoped-for badassery.

Maca picked up the two of us clients and spirited us to San Francisco de Chiu Chiu, a tiny town dominated by a white church nearly five centuries old. Chiu Chiu would be our launching point.

After dinner Katharina and I visited the resident llamas and explored the indigenous ruins which were scattered in the setting sun just behind our hostel.

The winds picked up, and we each went to curl up under the heavy blankets as the temperatures plunged outside.

At four a.m. I walked outside onto the flagstone to stare at the perfect night sky. That would be one of the last times I would walk. Outside I watched the dawn splash bright red paint on the ancient ruins. The cold relented to the spring sunshine and breakfast arrived at the hostel by tray and friendly staff.

Katharina and I were ready to go at ten a.m. when Maca, Esteban and the entire entourage arrived. The horses and the truck which would follow us pulled up in a cloud of dust. Katharina and I brought out our gear.

With my heavy luggage over my right shoulder, I headed down the flagstone steps. My right ankle suddenly twisted.

Ever as graceful as a drunken donkey, I fell face-first hard onto the stone steps. Blood splattered everywhere.

My left cheek felt like Muhammed Ali had nailed me with a hard right. My teeth didn't quite align. At the time I failed to register that my left knee had taken the brunt of the fall, so I tended to the exuberant facial bleeding. Maca called after me as I was stemming the flow over the hostel sink.

"I'm FINE," I called back, having no clue what I'd done to myself.

I hobbled determinedly back out, my knee now securely wrapped with Rock Tape and an Ace bandage around the joint. I was going anyway. I was fine, thanks. No worries.

Too Little, Too Late

We rode a short distance to a site where Esteban would initiate a formal ceremony to Pachamama. Each of us offered up a solemn request for a safe journey while pouring whiskey and coca leaves on sacred ground.

Oh, if only I had made that offering before taking my luggage to the truck.

Now near noon, we were off. I was astride Jocko, a lively black Criollo mix perfectly suited to me had I not just fractured my kneecap, a fact I didn't know for another three weeks. He was ideal for my dream of flying across the desert with my hair streaming.

My overheated ego matched his restless heart.

Then Pachamama piped in with a hard NO as when Esteban invited us to take off for our first glorious gallop.

Good horsepeople ride with their legs. In my case, the point of impact from the stairs was precisely where I had to put the most pressure to stay astride my plunging horse. The pain was indescribable.

Also, I'm a bleeder. Under my breeches, my left knee was not only swelling like a water balloon, but looked like a psychedelic Jackson Pollock painting.

That first gallop nearly did me in. I flopped around on poor Jocko's back like a loose sack of potatoes, gritting my teeth, doing my best to look heroic while being anything but. The only thing heroic was I didn't scream bloody murder as I struggled to hold on. I was like a Raggedy Ann doll tied to the pommel.

That was just the first few minutes.

Poor Jocko.

For the next nine days, the best I could manage was a short trot, which was still brutally painful. Jocko fought me every time the rest of our group sped away, irritated at being left behind.

I was just like the noobs I used to mock.

By the end of the first day my knee was the size of a small watermelon, with bruises running from my panty line to my ankle. It was quite spectacular.

Riding at the Back of the Pack

Everyone had to slow down, accommodate me, assist me in the most basic of activities. I was on my own for the toilet part, but let's just say, try that in the wild with one leg down where the only thing to hang onto is a cactus.

My left leg was trashed. I couldn't mount or dismount without assistance. Every movement was agony. Sleeping without rolling onto that knee was impossible, so I was sleep deprived, exhausted, and irritable with poor Jocko every day. When he battled me for permission to run it was agony for my knee.

For someone who chafed unless I was right up front (read: showoff), this was a superb lesson in humility.

I was that person on the big adventure who ate up additional resources, people and time. Oh, how I have waxed eloquently and insultingly about such people before. Now it was my turn.

That was part of Pachamama's lesson.

I had to hop one-legged from place to place, the impact of which was horrific, often grabbing onto nearby things without looking first. Did I mention the Atacama is full of vicious cacti?

It took more than an hour just to unzip my luggage each night and set up the inside of my tent, which I couldn't set up alone, much less in those insufferable winds. I couldn't eat with the group but for lunch, for set up and breakdown took just that long.

At first, I was resentful of my body and deeply embarrassed at my circumstances. Then I relaxed into the lesson that Pachamama presented. It was not the trip I had wanted, but maybe it was the experience I needed.

I was given every possibly opportunity to learn how to lean on others. Be supported with great cheer, by people who were happy I was there and even more happy to be of service. I learned to be patient with a severely injured body in the wild. To manage the pain by being distracted by breathtaking beauty and lose myself in the deafening silence.

By the time we stopped for lunch the second day, I had found a rhythm. I cuddled whichever dog was along for the day's adventure. I constructed shade by securing Esteban's poncho on a big rock and gave the dog a cool spot to rest and get a paw rub. The dogs helped me stay occupied while my fractured knee communicated its displeasure.

Esteban and Maca's family was beyond gracious. Not only did they take turns riding with me so that Jocko wouldn't tip me off out of frustration, but they also ignored my injury unless I needed help. I learned to ask for help and enjoy the smiles I got when people hurried to assist.

Lunch was bright, cool, fresh vegetables and cheese or fish mixed with spices magically appearing out of everyone's saddlebags. Esteban graciously helped me locate a stone or a tree stump every time I need to mount. A family member was always around to hold Jocko when I dismounted, for his twitchiness could send me flying and cause more injury.

I settled into the wide, comfortable saddle and enjoyed extra time with whoever was doing back-of-the-pack duty that day. Our horses' hooves struck the ancient rocks which tinkled prettily like piano keys. We passed massive cardon cacti sporting brilliant blooms nestled in the spikes. Wildlife was plentiful; herds of wild donkeys and llamas and guanacos were everywhere. Flamingoes rose in pink pairs as we approached the rare salt marsh.

We carefully crossed dangerous plains where our horses' legs constantly and without warning plunged into deep holes. We wound down wickedly steep, rocky trails to reach streams cutting through colorful, wind-sculpted rocks. There, bubbling springs offered us baths at lunchtime.

I particularly enjoyed how people laughed long and hard with me as I regularly made fun of my knee, my pain, my clumsiness, and my busted pride. Humor was my crutch and my defense against the waves of pain. Humor was my shield, my comfort and my superpower.

Accepting the Lesson

From the first days, I was plunged into two worlds: the magical world of The Atacama, and my internal world. The latter was dominated by physical pain and the cacophony of thoughts which bounced around in my cranial echo chamber.

Each day demanded that I not demean the experiences of those in my party by complaining no matter how badly I hurt, which was at times beyond the pale.

But I was beyond the pale, quite in fact. The trails stretched into infinity, our thin path lost in the distance while magnificent dark ochre and green mineral mountains rose behind us. We would walk slowly across great swaths of desert, through yellow brush, watch wild guanacos startle and then disappear beyond the far hills or stand silhouetted against the setting sun. Strange small animals chittered and darted among the rocks.

Katharina and I were beyond anything even remotely familiar. She became the rock I could count on every time my tent gave me trouble, a thoughtful and gracious ally who kept a quiet eye and never asked until I really needed help. What a gift.

We lunched in the ancient ruins of farmhouses, where people once braved these extreme conditions to raise sheep. Each day was a slow unveiling of more marvels, another distraction from the intense pain of my fractured knee. We slid down the sides of mountains in fast-moving sand, trusting our horses' instincts and balance.

Even with all that discomfort I embraced the Atacama. The vast silence. The rare birds. The echoes, as my ego released the need to be a badass.

Pachamama was giving me a lesson in vulnerability, compassion and grace.

Our last night was by a river. I was in so much pain that I missed the memo: this last night everyone sleeps outside. It isn't just to see the stars.

The winds, dust and sand are so bad that staying inside the tent is untenable. Or untentable, as it were. From the moment that I lay my aching, angry body down inside the mummy bag and on my thin pad, the powdery dust dribbled constantly onto my face, into my eyes and right up my nose. In desperation I pulled out a filthy, dusty handkerchief and draped it over my face, to little effect.

My mates were stretched out on thick sheepskins, enjoying the clean night sky, while I was in the tent enduring a dust storm. I almost missed the falling stars, the meteor showers and all the glorious light shows which was Pachamama's final gift to us.

For a few brilliantly gorgeous few moments I poked my head out of the tent, my hair in the sand, to see the desert sky. It was worth it. By the next morning, I was the only one covered head to toe in desert dust, irritated until I realized the joke was on me.

Pachamama's Parting Shot

At our hotel in San Pedro de Atacama, Katharina and I showered untold layers of filth down the drain. It took weeks to get medical care, and even more time to get a diagnosis: fractured kneecap and broken bones inside the joint.

That would explain a lot.

Before I left Chile, I got to see one more sunset. From the high point where Esteban's family house looked out over the Pacific Ocean in Valparaiso I photographed the bright red orb as it hovered over the ocean.

Moments later, Maca, Esteban and I realized that Pachamama was, as always, there with us.

But She wasn't done with me yet.

After returning to Oregon, I wrote a series of articles about the trip, making fun of my injury and speaking to what I had learned. When Katharina read her copies she wrote back in tears.

Therein was my true lesson. Lovely and kind Katharina learned far more from how I managed the trip with a severe injury than ever she might have gained had I been in fine, full fettle, full of myself and my overheated ego, determined to show the world my badassery.

Being vulnerable to others, having humor as the primary weapon we wield when facing life's worst, and being willing not only to offer but far more importantly to accept help from others is as brave as having climbed impressive mountains or leaping out of planes. Vulnerability is a super-human strength.

Later when I looked at my photos, one appeared to have a bright red outline of a woman with her arms outstretched, situated just under the setting sun. Pachamama knew what she was doing. It was not the trip I had envisioned, but she gave me the trip I really needed.

Julia Hubbel is the author of two books, a prize-winning journalist, and adventure athlete. Her primary interest is in adventure sports in the farthest reaches of the world, learning about indigenous cultures and discovering the last of the world's pristine places.

All photos by Hubbel except horseback riding shots courtesy of Katharina May

Related Features:
Disconnected in a Landscape of Sand and Salt by Tim Leffel
Life in the Past Tense: Chile's Atacama Desert by Shelley Seale
A Digital Detox While Connecting With Nature: Four Weeks Unplugged in Remote Canada by Julia Hubbel
A Horseback Trek in the Andes with the Argentine Men of the Mountains by Madelaine Triebe


See other South American travel stories in the archives