The plan: drive 1,500 kilometers from my apartment in Bogotá, through Colombia’s colonial heartland, up and over the Eastern Andes, chasing #FeelSomething experiences for WhereNext Travel guests, then wind back to my agroturismo, Finca Gualiva, to finish the trip.

Iglesia Nuestra Señora del Carmen, Villa de Leyva.

I've always believed that the best way to explore a country is to get behind the wheel, or the handlebars. Bicycle, motorcycle, van, or in this case, our sleek new Japanese SUV named the Silver Fox. Over the past five years, since my wife, Anita, and I bought our first car—a delightfully temperamental diesel Mercedes with sporty aspirations and aging joints—I've become what some might call a petrolhead. Colombia, as it turns out, is a playground for people like me.

This country has some of the most cinematic driving roads on the planet. They are also often treacherous. A blissful windy pass at 12,000 feet can devolve into a crater-pocked obstacle course littered with animals, debris, unpredictable truckers, and motorcycles that operate on a set of physics I didn’t learn at Bainbridge Island High School. But if you take the time to map the smooth tarmac routes and organize traffic windows correctly, you can carve through the Andes at sunrise, with views of volcanic plumes of ash rising over the clouds and not another soul in sight. Pure, raw driving. Each curve met with a whispered “WTF" or a guttural “holyyyy shit” as you dance up switchback after switchback.

Driving in Colombia is an art and a blood sport. This is a land of friendly, smiling people, until they get in a car. Then it’s Mad Max. Assume the illogical and you'll be fine. A semi-truck in reverse on a main highway? Sure. A motorcyclist overtaking a wobbly septic truck on a blind curve in the rain while holding three 5-meter metal pipes over his shoulder? Absolutely. And yet, despite (or because of) the chaos, I love it. I need it. I’m addicted to it. It demands your full attention, your instincts, and your gut. It's driving at its most primal.

Anita and I set out from our Bogotá apartment early, Silver Fox loaded with gear, snacks, Apple Music playlists (my first car with CarPlay), and curiosity. The day’s destination: Villa de Leyva, a colonial town that had served as our temporary home for two weeks in 2021 while waiting for the tenants of our current apartment to move out. We were here to inspect Hotel Casa Terra, a serene space with a courtyard framed by fossils and Southern France vibes. The owner splits her time between there and its Baricharra-based sister, Casa Terrazul.

But this trip wasn’t just a site inspection. It was a recon mission, seeking out new relationships, routes, and storylines to make guests feel something.

We wandered through old haunts, including the tiny creek where, years ago, our husky pup, Syrah, had a dramatic meltdown over crossing twelve inches of trickling water. These days, Syrah lives full-time at our Agroturismo, Finca Gualiva, and is Queen of the Gualiva River. She leaps across boulders, swims through rapids, and fights giant jungle snakes. Time flies.

Dinner was oven-roasted pizza at Mercado Municipal. It ended with Colombia’s most famous La Milhoja cake from La Galleta Pastelería Café, a sugar bomb of arequipe and crisp pastry layers, devoured while people-watching at sunset in the country’s biggest cobbled plaza. We both chugged some Pepto Bismol before bedtime.

The next morning, the wheels rolled to Baricharra. The road between the two towns is notorious. Just two lanes. No passing zones. 140 km of truck-dodging, pothole-skirting mayhem. Anita DJ’d a hybrid Shakira-Carol G playlist, breaking the moment every so often to mutter “this road, it’s like the craters of the moon” or “it’s a bombed-out war zone.” She's not wrong.

We rolled into Baricharra four hours later (yes, that’s right, 140 km in 4 hours) and checked into Casa Baricharra, a boutique beauty on one of Colombia’s most Instagrammable streets. That evening, we caught up with friends Dani and Shannon at their beautiful home with a multimillion-peso rooftop view, watching the sunset blaze over the Andes before a massive electric storm rolled in. Dani and I go way back, from my bohemian Bogotá days where edible flower farmers and vagabond photographers mingled in sketchy neighborhoods over cheap wine, exotic coffee, and big dreams.

Baricharra, or “Bari,” has grown up. We spent days walking, exploring new properties, and restaurants. Casa Terrazul was an oasis of calm and craft. Yahri had a historical soul and deeply personal service. And then there was Finca San Pedro, carved into the hillside and run by a Medellin-German couple with a knack for manifesting peace, farm-to-table cooking, and perfect hospitality.

The surprise highlight? Milana. A culinary knockout run by a Bogotá couple who trained in Anita's hometown of Mendoza, Argentina. Lunch blew our minds. We sat down with the owner and chatted about bespoke experiences for future guests. They’re in.

We capped off our stay with visits to Baricharra’s Paper Museum. We commissioned two watercolor portraits of birds that nest in Finca Gualiva’s forest reserve, created by our new favorite artist, Maria Catalina Mier. In Curití, we geeked out on artisan basket weaving, and Anita loaded up on handcrafted goods.

Then came the Chicamocha Canyon crossing. One of the deepest canyons in the world, and one of the twistiest roads in Colombia. Known locally as the "vomitada" route (Colombian slang for a car or bus that has been recently vomited in). We had planned to arrive at Mesa de Los Santos, the other side of the canyon, by dusk. We didn’t. Instead, we slopped along in the dark through muddy backroads, took a wrong turn into a cow pasture, scratched the Silver Fox's front bumper, and eventually landed at our cliffside bungalow in one piece.

Mesa de Los Santos is ripe for adventure travel design that connects it to Baricharra without requiring a lengthy van ride. We scoped out trail options and regional foodie joints. There’s real potential here for one-of-a-kind journeys, skipping bad roads via an aerial cable car or helicopter, and linking together canyon hikes, river rafting, paragliding, and catered riverside picnics.

On the final day, we put the hammer down in the Silver Fox for 9.5 hours, passing through Bucaramanga and tracing the Magdalena River along the old train line to Guaduas (where I proudly set the Fox’s land speed record). Then, we climbed into the Eastern Andes to our rainforest agroturismo, Finca Gualiva. Our dogs, Malbec and Syrah, greeted us with barks and wagging tails. Some of our four-legged loving guests from the previous month had mailed special treats to our apartment in Bogotá, which we’d carried the entire journey. As the dogs celebrated, we slipped into finca mode: repairing decks, wrangling a stubborn water heater, and dusting off my machete to clear the overgrown sun-drenched walking trails. With the property booked nearly 100% over the past three months, this week was critical for catching up on maintenance and giving our caretakers a much-needed break.

Back in Bogotá, I debriefed our product and sales team. We have new properties, new partnerships, and new magic to share. The great news for this petrolhead, the Silver Fox handled it all like a champ.

Where is my next WhereNext scouting trip, you may ask?: Peru.

#FeelSomething

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