Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer ​

​Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2026 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
"Mountain Pine Ridge" 
Do I actually find myself describing the condition of another dreadful road? (Again? Really?) Well, yes. For those of us in Cayo, there were only two types: 1) the Western Highway itself, which had actually improved somewhat over the previous eight years, having become, at least, passable without breaking an axle, and 2) “off-road,” which was everywhere else. In order to  accurately portray the next several years of adventure, I must first set the stage, where they took place, and what it was like to get there. 
In 1984, the Mountain Pine Ridge Road, heading south from Georgeville, was another brutal rodeo-of-a-two-lane dirt track, suitable only for deeply-committed travelers. 
In the dry season, tire traction produced thick clouds of choking dust, first hanging suspended in the glaring white light of midday, before drifting slowly downwind and settling on the parched roadside scrub like tropical snow. Only high-clearance vehicles could survive the shuddering washboard, the bang of bone-jarring potholes, and then spinning out on loose limestone gravel—like trying to drive on marbles. It was easy to lose control, spit stones, and drift sideways, the wheels falling into deep narrow trenches created by the rains of the previous season. 
​Conversely, the lashing wet-season rains could reduce visibility to a point where you couldn’t see further than the bonnet of the vehicle. Such rains had been known to tear off windshield wipers—something that had happened to me. Literally. Twice. Through side windows was an amorphous waterlogged blur of brownish-green, blending foreground and background, neither liquid nor solid. The slurry surrounded the truck and sheeted across the road, inches deep. Worthy vehicles did not drive 
downhill, as steering to the right or left had little effect. Rather, they skated and fishtailed according to the whim of gravity. The relentless downpours had churned the white marl dust into greasy-slick goo, flushing out gigantic limestone boulders, which jutted from the muck like skulls of half-buried dinosaurs. Valley bottoms turned into mires of liquid sludge, where wheels could sink to their axles. The only choice was to barrel through, riding the ridges of the mud-wallow, maintaining maximum speed and momentum. We were white-knuckled drivers, with eyes-wide-shut.
What little traffic existed on the Mountain Pine Ridge Road was largely British military: Land Rover personnel vehicles, Land Rover one-tonner cargo trucks, and the huge Bedford lorries. Along with a few brave, local, 4-wheel-drive pickup trucks, perhaps only two dozen vehicles traversed this road each day. 
Although San Pedro had started attracting scuba divers to the reef a few years earlier, inland tourism in Cayo did not yet exist. The ruins of Xunantunich were somewhat known, but few other tourist destinations had been defined. Even if innovative marketing had existed, there was near-zero infrastructure to support it. As a result, there was little reason for the off-beat European or American backpacker to take a chance on a nebulous destination that may, or may not, be worth the kidney-abuse. ​
Passing beyond the 10-Mile mark, where San Antonio Road branched to the right, the few scant signs of habitation dwindled into sheer wilderness. This was serious terrain, and you’d better have your survival kit. There were no services: no guest houses, no roadside stands, no Belikin beer, no people, and no water. Nope. From there on out, it was either 4-wheel drive and a large dose of egotistical fearlessness—or don’t bother.
However, that didn’t mean the land was devoid of stunning natural attractions. On the contrary, the Mountain Pine Ridge was a wilderness-of-wonder, full of magical places that had, so far, escaped the notice of the rest of the world. There were three destinations whose names were, at least,  known to the local people of Cayo, even if many had never had the opportunity to visit: the Thousand Foot Falls, the Rio On Bathing Pools, and the Rio Frio Cave. 
The mud track that led to the Thousand Foot Falls was about three miles beyond San Antonio Road, on the left side. Most of the year, a thick iron chain blocked-off the entrance. This was not so much to defend property rights, but rather to prevent naïve gringos from being trapped in a an insidious  quagmire, not far beyond the barrier. Yes, it was mud, but this patch seemed to have the properties of quicksand. In wet season, a Land Rover could sink nearly to its floorboards. If passengers tried to exit the truck, the sucking mud could overflow their boot-tops, and immobilize people as well. Anyone who pushed their luck could possibly die of thirst or starvation before being discovered. Instead, it would likely be the circling vultures who would give away the last living whereabouts of the over-zealous adventurer.
​Another eight miles south on the Mountain Pine Ridge Road, a tiny hand-painted wooden sign on the right would give mute testimony to the presence of the Rio On Bathing Pools. The occasional diehard would drive the narrow jungle track until it ended. Then, they were obliged to get out and walk. Ahead, the rushing river could be heard long before it was visible. And once visible, the traveler would stop in their tracks, mesmerized by the spectacle of whitewater amongst the rounded boulders, the pockets of deep cold water, and the flat sun-warmed rocks.  
​The same applied to the Rio Frio Cave, which lay another two miles south beyond the pools. Another tiny sign on the right. Again, it required driving, and then walking. Hidden deeply in the forest, it was as though the yawning chasm was utterly unpretentious in its magnificence. There was no fanfare, nothing to prepare the wanderer for the sight of the huge hole in the mountain. And suddenly, there it was. Self-evident. Another unknown jewel, personally “discovered” by the beholder in that moment, as though they were the first. 
​But again, no services. If you needed civilization, there was nothing here for you. If it was nature that fulfilled your soul, here was everything.
Beyond these three destinations, lay the whole of the Mountain Pine Ridge, with 200 years of rich history in the old mahogany logging camps: Augustine, Millionario, Flour Camp, and the Chiquibul. Southwest of these, as a toucan flies, is another distinct land mass called Vaca Plateau. Whereas Mountain Pine Ridge is a high, cool, granite massif dominated by Caribbean pine forest,  thin acidic soils, and exposed rock, Vaca Plateau occupies a lower and warmer elevation—a tableland of limestone karst covered in dense, broadleaf jungle, and riddled with caves, sinkholes and clandestine waterways. Both the granite highlands, and limestone jungles, meet abruptly in the canyons above the Upper Macal where I’d lived, the river dividing them like a blade. 
 In this wild jungle lay the magnificent ruins of Caracol, whose exact location had not even been officially logged until 1937. Then, only in 1985, would the focused excavation of Caracol begin in earnest. Both geological regions, Mountain Pine Ridge and Vaca Plateau, still contain hundreds of major and minor Mayan temples, and countless thousands of house mounds. 
​The Mountain Pine Ridge Road at 8-Mile was about to become my next profound adventure—an up-and-coming world of exploration and discovery. Tourism was coming west to Cayo. 
We'd had a vision. We could sense the next phase, and intended to be ready when it came.