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(08/09/26)
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Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2026 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
"Mountain Pine Ridge"
In 1984, the Mountain Pine Ridge Road, starting at Georgeville was a brutal, bony, stony, two-lane dirt track, suitable only for deeply-committed travelers. In the dry season, tire action-traction produced thick clouds of choking dust, first hanging suspended in the glaring white light of midday before slowly drifting downwind and settling on roadside scrub like a tropical snow. High-clearance British Army Land Rovers rattled over shuddering washboard, hitting bone-jarring potholes, and then spinning out on loose limestone gravel. It was like trying to drive on marbles or ball-bearings. Trucks could lose control, spitting stones and drifting sideways, their wheels falling into deep narrow trenches created by the rains of the previous season.
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In the wet season, lashing rains could reduce visibility to include only the hood 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. Lorries and
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Land Rovers did not drive downhill, but rather aimed, skated, and fishtailed, according to the whim of gravity; steering to the right or left had little effect. The relentless downpours had churned the white marl dust into greasy-slick goo, flushing out gigantic limestone boulders; they jutted from the muck like the skulls of half-buried dinosaurs. Valley bottoms turned into anomalous mires of liquid sludge where wheels could sink to their axles. Often times the only choice was to barrel through, and maintaining maximum speed and momentum—white knuckled drivers, and with eyes-wide-shut.
In those days, what little traffic existed on the Mountain Pine Ridge Road was largely British military vehicles, or logging lorries, with only a dozen passing by per day. Although San Pedro had started attracting scuba divers to Belize’s Barrier 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 were yet to be defined. Even if innovative marketing had existed, there was near-zero infrastructure to support it. Therefore, there was little reason for the eccentric European or American backpacker to take a chance on some nebulous destination that may, or may not, be worth the back pain and kidney-abuse.
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Beyond 10 Mile, where the San Antonio Road branched to the right, the few scant signs of existing civilization immediately dwindled into sheer wilderness. This was serious terrain, and you’d better have your survival kit. There were no services: no guest houses, no restaurants, no gas stations, no roadside stands, no Belikin beer, no soft drinks, no villages, 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.
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However, that didn’t mean the land was devoid of stunning natural attractions. There were three that were fairly well-known to the people of Cayo—magical destinations places that had, so far, escaped the notice of the rest of the world. There was the Rio Frio Cave, the Rio On Bathing Pools, and the Thousand Foot Falls. The first two were within a couple of miles of each other, each displaying a tiny subtle hand-painted wooden signs on the right—mute testimonies to their existence. Visitors turned drove the narrow jungle tracks until they ended. Then they walked. The huge hole in the mountain was self-evident. Likewise, the rushing river amongst the boulders. To be clear, these destinations did not lack awe. They were simply unknown jewels. But again, no services. Just raw nature.
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The road to the Thousand Foot Falls was several miles further south, with the turn-off to the left, and held a much more brutal story. Most of the year, the mud track entrance was chained off. Literally. This was not so much to defend property rights, but rather to prevent naïve gringos from being permanently trapped in the quagmire. It was mud, but with the properties of quicksand. In wet season, even a 4-wheel drive could nearly sink to the point of disappearance. Anyone who pushed their luck could easily die of thirst or starvation before ever being discovered. Back then, there was no roadside ranger with whom to check-in. Instead, it would be the circling turkey vultures who would give away the last living whereabouts of the overly-zealous adventurer.
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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. West and south, as a toucan flies, is another distinct land mass called Vaca Plateau.
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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 holes and clandestine waterways. Both the granite highlands, and limestone jungle canyon, meet abruptly at 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 been officially logged until 1937. By the following year, in 1985, focused excavation of Caracol would 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. 
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The Mountain Pine Ridge area was about to my next profound adventure—a up-and-coming world of exploration and discovery. Tourism was coming west to Cayo. We could sense it, and intended to be ready when it came.
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NEXT: CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR>>>
"Equestrian Dreams" (coming soon...) |