As I write this sitting on my dorm bunkbed in Buenos Aires, I'm coming to the gut-stabbing realization that this is the end. Well, at least it's the end of South America for us.

Because in a few days we fly ourselves and our bike back home to Chicago for a few months' rest before we then head on to Africa. But as I reflect on all that we've seen and done not just in the past two years of travel, but also in the past two weeks here in Argentina, I know that at least we ended our Great Americas Journey with a bang. Or a splash I guess I should say.

After Los Alerces NP, we headed deeper into the Lakes District which is famous for its Swiss-looking towns such as El Bolsón, La Angostura, San Martín de los Andes, and the region's urban and tourist center, San Carlos de Bariloche. These towns felt clean, friendly, wealthy, and quaint with their wooden and stucco houses of high-pitched roofs boasting shuttered windows and flower boxes. And if that's not great enough, the town centers were lined in sweet-smelling German bakeries and chocolate shops.

We spent our last few days in the Lakes District taking random scenic dirt roads through the mountains, and wild camping next to pristine rivers. It was idyllic (except for a punctured tire, but Tim's a pro at fixing them now), and I would highly recommend these roads to anyone willing to get off the beaten-path (Rte 65 and 63 between Bariloche and San Martín, and Rte 23 north of San Martín).

With the Lakes District now behind us, our plan was to get to Buenos Aires on the other side of the continent as quickly as we could, which turned out to be a four day ride. There's really not much to see or do in the windy pampas grasslands that is the entirety of middle Argentina. Just wave to the gauchos on horseback herding their cattle as you pass.

It's a little like the Midwest, where we're from, except instead of corn fields as far as you can see, it's just grass. Barbed wire fences and grass. And maybe a grazing animal or two. And wind. There's something austere and comforting about it all, for sure, especially since it reminds me of home. But it's also terribly boring.

The closer we got to Buenos Aires, the more like the Midwest it became: rolling corn, soy, and wheat fields surrounding the occasional giant metal grain cooperative. And then we came to maybe the friendliest town in Argentina: Pehuajó (peh-wa-HO).

There's not anything particularly special about Pehuajó, except that I felt like I had entered a “Leave it to Beaver" episode and found myself in 1950's Perfectville, USA. Because as Tim was putting more oil in the bike (we still have a leak) and cleaning out the air filter right in downtown Pehuajó, people started gathering around. Sure, he and the bike are definitely attention-grabbing, but you would have thought everyone's long-lost cousin had showed up. So many people were coming up to him and talking, giving him their number for if he needed any help, inviting us to join their motorcycle club, we even got invited to someone's 80th birthday party!

There were children playing on the street, people riding by on bicycles with little bells, the owner of the hotel greeted every person who walked by with a smile and by name. There was even a woman on a bike with her baby swaddled into the front basket (probably not the safest thing, but hey, it's 1950's America, nobody cared!). The opthamologist across the street kept coming by to make sure we didn't need any of the tools he had, the woman next door gave me a map of the region, it was so much friendliness, that this tiny town with not much there will forever stay in my heart and memories.

From Pehuajó, we had a choice to make: go straight to Buenos Aires, or first go to these incredible waterfalls we'd heard about called Iguazú (ee-gwa-SU). The obvious choice would be to see the waterfalls if they're supposed to be so great, but the problem is that it's a long journey to get there. Like if it's your dream in life to visit Paraguay, then they would maybe make sense to see (poor Paraguay, I doubt that's anyone's dream), but otherwise you have to go days out of your way to see these waterfalls. Our bike had an oil leak along with some other issues that needed attention, so there were plenty of reasons to get to Buenos Aires to fly home as soon as possible.

On the other hand, even though most people might have never heard of Iguazú Falls, it's one of the largest and most spectacular waterfalls in the world, and is more than twice the height and width of Niagara. It has been a bucket list item of mine for years, and so despite it not making sense when considering finances and time, I told Tim that it would mean a lot to me if we went.

Tim had very little interest in the falls, but out of a favor for me, we headed north to Iguazú.

It was a four day unpleasant journey through a humid and rainy landscape called Mesopotamia, an homage to the fact that like the Fertile Crescent, it's also wedged between two major rivers: the Uruguay and the Paraná. Full of timber and yerba mate farms, the flat views of never-ending green stretches can be interesting at first, but it didn't take more than a half hour before I started to wonder if any waterfall could ever make this worth it.

After a few days on the road, we started to see signs for something called La Alemana (the German Woman), and not just one sign, but an incessant amount of signs. Have you ever driven through South Dakota and seen all the signs for Wall Drug? There's nothing else to look at and you just can't tune out the obnoxious billboards, until you find yourself actually anticipating whatever this proclaimed amazing business is.

Well, like we expected, La Alemana is a kitsch German-themed store that sells hamburgers, pickles, sausages, and cheeses, complete with a fake windmill and waterwheel. But I found myself actually surprised by the quality of the products. They're supposedly all made by 24 local German-ancestry families, and I really enjoyed my jar of chicken escabeche, which is like a vinegar preserve with meat and veggies, mmmm! They even had wild game versions made with ñandú (ostrich-like local birds), viscacha (chinchillas), pheasants, llama, and all sorts of animals I had no idea what they were.

After La Alemana, we were sure we weren't going to see anything of even the slightest interest until the falls. But when we arrived in the town of San Ignacio, we checked into our hotel and the owner asked us if we knew how to get ruins. “Ruins?" I asked. She said, “Oh. You didn't come here to see the ruins?" It turns out we were only a few blocks away, and as we are avid Indiana Jones wannabes, we knew we had to check it out.

On the way there, I kept thinking, “What sort of South American civilization made huge stone ruins in this part of the Amazon jungle?" And then once we got there I realized that even though these ruins were old for American standards (from 1632), they were not indigenous. The San Ignacio Miní mission was built by Spanish Jesuits (costs 270 Pesos a person, ~$6.15), and despite not being quite as mysterious as Incan and Mayan temples, they were still very impressive and had their own sort of mystique to them.

The next day we pulled our bike into Puerto Iguazú (the Argentinian town closest to the falls), we found a hotel, and hoped that the weather would hold for our next day's trip into the National Park. But I was nervous, not just about the weather, but I was afraid that this was all going to be a disappointment. I knew that no matter what, I would be grateful for Tim bringing me there, but I worried that I'd regret having convinced him to take so much time and money just to see a waterfall. That he would sigh and say to me afterwards, “Ok, so we did that. Can we go home now?".

Part of the problem is that we wouldn't be going to the Brazilian side of the falls. Although the entirety of Iguazú Falls is technically in Argentina, Brazil has a fantastic lookout point (poor Paraguay, again... so close, but they somehow missed out on all the action). But it would cost us even more time and money to enter Brazil, and we had decided against it. So whatever Argentina had to offer, that was going to be what we got.

We woke up on the day of truth to see rain-filled clouds above us. Great. I started to get the sense that this was going to be a disaster.

The park cost us 700 Pesos a person (~$17.50), plus 70 for parking (~$1.60), and once we got inside, we had to get tickets (free) for a train that would take us to the main attraction: La Garganta del Diablo, or Devil's Throat.

The train was crowded and slow, but as we started hiking along a congested metal walkway over the river, feeling squished and herded along like I was stuck in line at a Disney World ride, I noticed a thick mist forming over the river in the distance. And then as we got closer, there was this constant roar. And before we knew it, we were standing on a platform actually built over the largest part of the waterfall! It was loud, wet, and intense, like we were inseparable from the water, a part of the action, feeling like we were about to tumble over!

It was a thrilling experience, but as far as views go, you couldn't see much besides the rushing water beneath you because everything else was shrouded in the mist it created.

So we left the Devil's Throat, now with smiles on our wet faces, got back on the packed and sweaty train, and made our way to a trail that was said to be the best: the Lower Circuit. In Spanish, this trail is called El Paseo Inferior, which, as opposed to the Paseo Superior, did not sound like it was going to be better. But sure enough, once we trekked through the dark and humid rainforest, we arrived at an opening with a view that just erased any doubts I may have had.

After a good ten minutes of awed silence and picture taking, Tim turned to me and said, “Now this is worth it. This is amazing!"

​And I could have cried. Except that he wouldn't have noticed from all the rain on my face. Yes, it was raining, but I realized that it didn't matter. After all, we were in the rainforest and we had come to see water, lots of it. But also the ferocity of the clouds seemed to fit right in.

Those deep tones of the grumbling sky against the angry water hurtling itself over the edge and punching its way down against the rocks, that whole battle scene was in perfect contrast with the ballet dance of the bridal veils of singular streaming falls on either side, like delicate silk threads becoming lost in the wispy forest foliage. If I had to describe a place like heaven with all its strength and beauty wrapped into one, it would be simply this image of Iguazú Falls, and the feeling I felt as I stood there marveling at its grandeur.

We hiked both the Lower and Upper Circuit trails that go beside, over, and even under countless waterfalls. And there wasn't just the view of the main falls, but there were falls all around us, behind us, plunging below the walkways, each and every one would have been an attraction in and of itself if it were anywhere else.

I have to say that this National Park really puts your money to hard work. Most of the trails are metal walkways built over rivers and wetlands, and they have done a fantastic job. As you walk the miles of grated boardwalks, you will see huge fish and stoic egret beneath you, and you'll really appreciate how it was no easy feat to create these trails. There are bathrooms, benches, garbages, recycling bins, food stores, handicapped-accessible ramps to nearly everything, and best of all, friendly employees standing around guiding people and giving directions. For being a water-laden site in the middle of thick Amazonian jungle, they've really made it easy and comfortable to get to. Even the slow train is ok, I suppose.

So, was it worth it? Yes! And I hope that the name Iguazú becomes a household name for one of the world's great natural wonders.

We rode back east to Buenos Aires (stopping at La Alemana again for more German chicken-in-a-jar), and yesterday we had a marvelous time exploring this dynamic city of culture, arts, food, music, and dance. Buenos Aires is a beautiful city with a posh atmosphere that somehow feels relaxed at the same time. I mean, steaks and wine and tango and museums and nightlife, this historic city is always vibrant, always having a good time, and always awake (probably due to all the mate drinking).

But now it's time for us to go back home.

Don't worry, the trip is not over! First we'll ride our bike out to Flagstaff, Arizona to give a presentation at the Overland Expo West on May 17-19 (we hope to see you there!). And we'll also be getting married in June! Whoa, that's a big one. And then, off to Africa!

​So lots of exciting stuff to come, stay tuned and we'll keep you updated here, on facebook, and instagram.

Traveling is not always easy. It's not like the eternal vacation we all had in our minds when planning things out, and sometimes it can beat us down.

After having a slew of bike issues in the flat and windy far reaches of Patagonia, we were just about ready to give up and go home. Tim and I weren't exactly enjoying ourselves anymore, because if you could see our faces from inside our helmets as we strained against the relentless wind, you would've noticed that we were grimacing and probably swearing with every bad word we could think of.

Intense winds are awful, but our motorcycle falling apart brought us to a whole new level of frustration. The worst was the day after I wrote my last blog, March 3rd. We'd just spent $1,000 on bike repairs, got new tires, a new chain, an oil change, and we were thrilled to be back on the road again... until we got to Puerto Natales, Chile, and noticed oil dripping out of every spot on the engine that it could find. It was a disaster, and we felt defeated.

We've made it to the end of the world: the most southern point that you can get to by road on the planet, which is quite an accomplishment, but it has not been without its obstacles. We've had one bike problem after the next, so much so that we are now stuck in Punta Arenas, Chile until we can get the proper parts flown in to this section of the world.

More than a month ago in northern Chile, the engine started overheating on crisp and cold days. So we took it in to the KTM workshop in Santiago where they fixed the water pump, changed out the coolant, and we figured our bike issues were behind us.

Riding along Chile's Austral Highway wasn't just my dream, it's been a dream of the Chilean people to connect the remote villages of western Patagonia since the 1950's. Completed in 2003, the highway is now called Route 7, or the Carretera Austral (meaning the southern highway), and it passes through mountains of snow, lakes of fresh glacial water, and it goes from temperate rainforests to desert bluffs in 770 miles (1,240 km) of weaving and winding paved bliss.

​Of course, we had to go.

We were in northern Argentina, spending our days poolside in the shade of peach trees and vineyards, when we realized that it had to come to an end. Because if we were ever going to get to Patagonia's glaciers before the roads became impassable with snow, we would need to exchange this warm-weather grape-eating lifestyle for one of down jackets and wooly hats. And it had to be soon, before we'd miss our window of opportunity to get to the Antarctic regions of South America while it's still summer there.

After four months of roughing it in Peru and Bolivia, Tim and I arrived at the Chilean customs office dirty, tired, beaten down by the cold wind, and on our last drop of gas and food. But once crossing into Chile, we coasted down 6,000 feet in elevation on perfect pavement (no need for gas!), and we could feel the sun warming our Bolivian-chilled bones as we entered Chile's Atacama desert. In less than an hour, we found ourselves awe-struck in the town of San Pedro de Atacama, as foreigners walked around in shorts and sun dresses, and the place was as modern and expensive as anything we'd seen since the States.

Nearby Calama was just like home (though not in the best way) with its own Walmart, fast food chains, and strip malls. There were pharmacies with cash registers, and gas stations that took credit cards and even had handicapped parking spots labeled on the asphalt. Of course, all this luxury came at a high price, as the cheapest room we could find in San Pedro was $30 a night (the same as paying for camping), instead of the normal $10. We were in culture shock plus sticker shock.

With the bike not starting from our ride through Bolivia's salt flats, we were in a bit of a predicament. Our dear and wonderful friends who'd stayed by our sides throughout it all, Brendon and Kira Hak, were on the verge of overextending their visa in Bolivia, and needed to go. Unlike us, their bike was fully functional, and their plan was to take a difficult, but gorgeous route south and out of Bolivia: the Lagunas Route.

But as Tim and I found ourselves immobile in the town of Uyuni, we knew that if we didn't get our bike running before they had to leave, we would not want to do such a challenging road by ourselves with a questionable motorcycle. Our plans and dreams of riding the Lagunas Route were now falling apart.

So the pressure was on for Tim to fix the bike, and he needed to do it by 11:00 AM the next day, which was checkout time for the Haks and the latest possible moment before they had to leave.

Yes, it looks awesome: the mirror effect of the largest salt flats in the world during the wet season. But don't let the surreal image of us riding through the Salar de Uyuni in Bolivia fool you, because it has rendered our motorcycle immobile.

The amazing photographers who took this shot are our friends Kira and Brendon Hak, the fellow KTM-riding duo called the Adventure Haks. We met up with them for Christmas in Sucre, Bolivia, and then headed south together a few days before this epic failure-of-a-ride.

We entered Bolivia a little more than a week ago, excited for this new country of dynamic culture, mountains, and jungle. And to celebrate the holidays, we wanted to be in the white-washed colonial city of Sucre to meet fellow motorcycle travelers and friends for Christmas. That gave us nine days to get there from the Peruvian border and see all the fantastic sites in between. So we were a little rushed, but it didn't seem to be an impossible task. At least in the beginning.

After exploring the world of the Inca around Cusco and Machu Picchu, we knew that our time in Peru was coming to a close. But before we headed into Bolivia (arrived today!), there were a couple of things left in Peru that we wanted to see and get done.