Waterfall Serenade by a Lady in Red, Myrdal Norway

Learn more about the Vagabond Adventure at vagabond-adventure.com and read the story about our ferry through the Sognefjord to Flåm from day 608 here: https://vagabond-adventure.com/vagabond-journal/vagabond-adventure-day-608-bergen-to-flom-ferry 

Read More

Road Trip Egypt from Cairo to Alexandria a visual journey

The world is big and full of remarkable destinations. Take a deeper dive into the places we’ve been privileged to explore, all crafted from our own experiences. Use this information along with our Travel Recommendations to craft your dream adventure, Vagabond style if you like.

See more: https://vagabond-adventure.com/destinations

Read More

Exploring the Best Travel Adventure Stories with Vagabond Adventure

 

Travel is more than moving from one place to another—it’s about experiencing cultures, meeting people, and collecting moments that shape who we are. Every trip carries its own surprises, teaching us lessons that go far beyond maps and guidebooks. The joy of sitting by a campfire under the stars, the thrill of hiking to a hidden peak, or even the humor of a missed train can become part of a lifelong memory.

Stories like these connect us. They remind us that the world is vast, yet we share the same human curiosity to explore. Travel is not just about destinations—it’s about the inner adventure that begins when we step outside our comfort zone. Whether you are a seasoned globetrotter or someone planning your first trip, there’s always something new waiting to be discovered.

At Vagabond Adventure, we believe that journeys are best remembered when shared. That’s why our community brings together explorers from every corner of the globe. Through our Vagabond Journal, you’ll find narratives that resonate with the true essence of discovery. If you are searching for the best travel adventure stories, our platform curates authentic accounts from real travelers who have turned moments into memories.

These stories are not written by travel agencies with glossy brochures, but by individuals who embraced the unexpected—sometimes facing challenges, other times stumbling upon hidden treasures. For example, a traveler recounts the warmth of strangers who offered shelter during a sudden storm in the mountains. Another shares the thrill of navigating bustling markets where every corner tells a tale of tradition. These experiences remind us that the most powerful journeys often happen when plans don’t go as expected.

Beyond entertainment, these stories serve as guides and inspirations. They offer insights into local cultures, tips for overcoming travel hurdles, and encouragement to venture into new territories. When readers dive into these narratives, they find themselves transported—walking cobblestone streets, tasting exotic flavors, and hearing the echoes of distant festivals. This connection between the storyteller and the reader is what transforms a travel account into a true adventure.

What makes the Vagabond Journal different is its authenticity. We value real voices, personal struggles, and genuine triumphs. Each entry is crafted to spark curiosity and inspire courage. For aspiring travelers, this collection becomes more than reading material; it becomes a source of motivation. After all, knowing that someone else took that leap into the unknown makes it easier for you to do the same.

The beauty of these adventures also lies in their diversity. Some are tales of solo wanderers who found confidence in unfamiliar places. Others are family expeditions where bonds grew stronger under foreign skies. There are also stories of friends who embarked on journeys and returned with memories they’ll share for a lifetime. Each narrative, though unique, echoes a universal truth: travel has the power to change us.

By engaging with these accounts, readers not only enjoy exciting stories but also discover practical knowledge. From learning about budget-friendly hacks to uncovering must-visit local gems, the Vagabond Journal becomes both a guide and a companion. This dual value—informational and emotional—is what makes our platform stand out.

So if you’ve been dreaming of adventures yet to come or reflecting on ones already taken, the Vagabond Adventure community welcomes you. Explore the best travel adventure stories on our journal page, and let them inspire your next journey. Because every adventure, big or small, deserves to be told—and yours might just be the next story that inspires someone else.

Read More

Remembering Close Encounters: A Journey Beyond the Ordinary

 45 years later, Close Encounters of the Third Kind still entertains and thrills audiences.  It’s a sci-fi classic with an epic, landmark location that audiences never forget. Steven Spielberg’s choice of Devils Tower for the finale of Close Encounters of the Third Kind remains one of modern cinema’s biggest, mind-blowing final reel moments.

It’s been 45 years since Spielberg’s blockbuster Close Encounters of the Third Kind hit the big screen in 1977.

Face it, ever since the UFO hysteria was unleashed following the Roswell incident back in 1947 the interest in flying saucers and space aliens has never diminished.

It has sparked our collective imagination.  Are we alone in this endlessly vast universe?  Or does otherworldly intelligence exist?  And, if so, what would it be like if we ever encountered them?

The question has flashed through the minds of everyone who has ever peered into the twinkling night sky and felt that overwhelming sense of awe and wonder.

Hollywood wasted no time in offering up possible scenarios.  In Howard Hawk’s The Thing from Another World (1951) the interplanetary traveler is a terrifying monster.  In Robert Wise’s The Day The Earth Stood Still (1951) he is an emissary with a dire warning, and a nine-foot robot companion whose mission is to maintain global peace. The Earth and its nations can either grow up and discard their nuclear weapons or be reduced to a burned out cinder.  You could argue that Gort—the name of the robot—was the original Robocop. 

In addition to these classic films, there have been a steady stream of flying saucer films over the years. Many of the early ones were low-budget, drive-in movie fare, featuring actors in pathetic rubber costumes chasing scantily clad women. They have ranged from flat-out comedy (Earth Girls Are Easy, 1988) to splashy, big-budget, effects-driven spectacles like Independence Day, 1996.

Rarely had the topic been treated very seriously.  That is, until Steven Spielberg made Close Encounters of the Third Kind. 

It was a masterful mix of reality and fantasy—a blend of all the sightings and rumors and speculation that had accumulated over the years, with a sprinkling of pure imagination and state of the art Hollywood special effects.

At last, UFOlogists had a movie they could call their own.  Spielberg, the consummate storyteller, opens the film with a tantalizing moment in an air traffic control room in which something totally mysterious streaks across the radar screens, verified by airline pilots who can’t believe what they just witnessed.

Close Encounters weaves together tantalizing folklore and documented, unexplained accounts of UFOs with unsolved pop culture mysteries like all those planes and ships that disappeared in the infamous Bermuda Triangle.  He cobbles together the argument that something is out there, something that we have never been able to account for.

And so, when strange things start happening to the main characters in the film, we’re all in.  They are not just crackpots (though they are treated as such, as they always are in movies like this), they are a selected few being invited to witness the greatest moment in the history of mankind—our mind-blowing encounter with beings from another world.

Close Encounters is a hugely successful film, one that is delightfully entertaining in a style that has become Steven Spielberg’s trademark.  It stands the test of time.

Part of the success of this film is, of course, the setting.  I’m speaking of Devils Tower, Wyoming.  It’s the iconic, one-of-a-kind natural setting that cannot be mistaken for any other place on this planet.  It’s the place where the characters need to go.  Collectively, they become obsessed and driven by some overwhelming mysterious psychological motivation that drives them there. But what is the obsession? They sketch it, they make sculptures of it with mashed potatoes and finally piles of wet mud.  They know, and we know, that where they are being brainwashed and programmed to go is a wild place they can’t resist. But again, why?

Devils Tower is a character in this film as much as any of the rest of the cast.  It looms large, very literally.  Its size is overwhelming and awe inspiring, until of course, the alien ship appears above it, completely and dramatically dwarfing it.  It’s the OMG moment that a movie like this requires to knock you out of your seat.

Devils Tower is to Close Encounters what Mount Rushmore was to Hitchcock’s North by Northwest (1959).  Spielberg was heavily influenced by Hitchcock, as his suspense-driven blockbuster film Jaws (1975) revealed.  He knows what you can milk out of a famous, well-known location in the way of anticipation and thrills.

Interestingly, it was David Lean’s film Lawrence of Arabia (1962) that inspired Spielberg to become a filmmaker.  Who can forget the famous cut early in the movie between the closeup of a match being ignited and the vastness of the desert in which men on camels appear to be tiny ants on a massive anthill?

For Spielberg, size matters.  Scale matters.  The choice of Devils Tower became the perfect choice because of it instant recognizability and its staggering size.

Its name should appear in the final credits along with the rest of the stars, and maybe it should have received a special Academy Award for a category called something like Natural Wonder in a Supporting Role.

It deserved it.

 

Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/remembering-close-encounters

Read More

Blisters, Bridges, and a Priest from Manila: Day Two on the Camino de Santiago

 

Waking Up in Arcade. Breakfast and the Locals

We awoke from our single beds refreshed even though it felt like a vintage Camino Way guesthouse out of Lucy and Desi’s 1950s sitcom (see The Lucy Show). This, we assumed, was because single beds were for people who weren’t necessarily partners. You saw a fair amount of that on the Camino Way. Personally, Cyn and I like to sleep in the same bed. You don’t necessarily get more rest, but it’s a lot more fun!

Once awakened and sensible, we descended to the restaurant downstairs for breakfast. A group of middle-aged men sat by the bar, sipping espressos, with buttered croissants, jacked on caffeine and talking in rapid Spanish over whatever newspapers they had clasped in their hands. It was a lively but good natured discussion, obviously a daily ritual, and I wished I could have gotten involved, but my Spanglish was no match for the latin phrases pouring so swiftly from their mustachioed lips.

Breakfast was served at the same table we had supped the night before: coffee and tart, pulpy orange juice with eggs over easy were placed in front of us along with spicy sausage, thick white toast and rice. We inhaled it, drank some more coffee and surveyed our situation. Next on the Camino Portugués route, our destination was the historic city of Pontevedra, a short seven-mile walk compared to the 14 mile Trail of Blisters we managed to survive the day before.

After breakfast, and back in our room, we re-stuffed our daypacks, I nursed my blisters with a couple of bandaids and we headed outside to bid the wood-sculpted pilgrim at San Salvador de Soutomaior, the church across the street, good-bye. He said nothing in reply. Apparently taking a vow of silence.

Statue of pilgrim of San Salvador de Soutomaior in paved courtyard

The Walk Begins: Roman Bridges and Morning Heat

We saw other pilgrims as we walked through the town, but there seemed to be less of them than the day before. They strode along the path in the sunshine with their backpacks strapped on, some with walking sticks or staffs, others hoofing it old fashioned way. Groups spoke excitedly in various languages, and loners moved over the cobbled stones quiet and determined. The morning was gorgeous but you could already feel the heat. At the edge of the town we crossed a long and beautiful stone bridge, the Ponte Sampaio, one of the most iconic crossings on the Portuguese Way of the Camino de Santiago, with its ten elongated arches. The bridge was originally built by the Romans with masonry that would have done the castles of Camelot proud.

Meeting Father LaSana and His Students

Beyond the bridge, we made our way north, skirting the Rio de Vigo before heading into trees and hills away from the town.  Rivers or streams always seem to be near the Camino because once upon a time there was no running water, no hotels, no restaurants. It was nature or nothing. The streams also have the advantage of being relatively flat, having cut their way through valleys and passes over the eons. Not that “The Way” is ever utterly flat. There were always hills and valleys, ups and downs, much like life.

As we approached the woods, a man walked up to Cyndy speaking perfect English and asked if she was from Pittsburgh. Yes, she agreed, she was. The man knew because Cyndy often kept a sweatshirt stuffed like a little billboard on her back under her day pack that had the word PITTSBURGH emblazoned upon it. He knew the name because he was from Delaware, but currently living in the Philippines.

He was a tall man with a big smile.  How he had ended up in the Philippines and why he was walking the Camino Way was a little complicated. He was a priest—just one of many unexpected encounters you have when meeting people on the Camino. He had asked his bosses to move him from his previous job in the United States to a place closer to the East Coast so that he could be near his family.

“There was a discussion,” he said, “and after a few hours, my supervisors moved me a little further east than I originally intended — Manila.” He smiled his big smile. “I told them that was a little farther east than the location I originally had in mind, but I took the assignment.“

For the past 7 years he had worked as the chaplain in a school for students from kindergarten to grade 12. This explained why he had an boisterous crew of teens clustered with him as we walked.

Father Andre LaSana was a member of a relatively new Catholic priesthood — the Legionnaires of Christ. They sounded unusually similar to the Jesuits – The Society of Jesus — to me — priests who had taught me in high school. I had contemplated becoming a Jesuit myself so I was intrigued. The Legionnaires’ goal, said Fr. LaSana, was to engage not simply within the church, but outside of it – link with the real world. All members of the order take vows of humility, poverty, chastity, and obedience. Very much like the Jebbie’s. And like the Jesuits, it takes a long time to get from deciding to be a member of the priesthood to finally being ordained. Thirteen years in Fr. LaSana’s case.

Legionaires had been founded in the 1940s by a charismatic Catholic priest from Mexico named Marcial Maciel. He grew the Legionnaires quickly and effectively world-wide for over 60 years, but according to the BBC, a 2019 report found that he had personally abused at least 60 children, and that another 33 priests of the order abused minors as well. The total number of children abused by the order since its founding in 1941 came to at least 175, an appalling number and this from a report generated within the order! Fr. Le Sana was forthright about this history. In fact he brought it to my attention when we were talking.

The Legionaries of Christ eventually acknowledged their founder's "reprehensible and objectively immoral behavior" as head of the congregation. The "very serious and objectively immoral acts" of Maciel, which were "confirmed by incontrovertible testimonies", represented "true crimes and manifest a life without scruples or authentic religious sentiment", the Vatican said. Maciel was eventually defrocked and the order was required by Pope Benedict XVI to undergo a process of “purification.” Fr. LaSana told me he thought things had changed, but after 70 years of abuse, many questions remain about the church’s early efforts to hide the facts. 

We walked on through the morning and I talked with some of the young men in the group. There was Miguel, Emilio, Nick Reyes, Nico and several more, but Fr. LaSana said most of them had Filipino nicknames like BongBong and TenTen, and Jell-o (for Angelo). They came from well-to-do Filipino households mostly. Very bright with excellent English. One student planned to be a doctor, another a lawyer, maybe. He said he wasn't sure just yet which made sense to me. He was only 15. It's early, I told him, and suggested he keep his options open. He looked at me thoughtfully and then said, “Of course. That makes sense.”

I asked them their favorite foods and almost universally they told me it was the Filipino version of McDonald's – fast fried chicken with rice or french fries. They were big fans of American movies but didn't have much to say about the Camino Way, at least the religious aspects of it. According to them, it was just a cool opportunity, and a great way to see a part of the world they might never see again. 

Through Forests, Rivers, and Reflections

In time, we split off from Fr. LaSana and his brood, and climbed into low mountains through green forests that provided some relief from the rising heat. You find your mind undertakes little journeys of its own when wandering for hours like this. That was one the advantages of walking The Way. It becomes a spiritual journey whether you intend it or not for the simple reason that it gives you to hours to wander the pathways of your own contemplations. I’ve always found that time expands when I travel. When home we grow accustomed to the same things day after day, but when we travel we cram far more into our day than when we’re home. The first time I took a long trip to Europe in my 20s, I remembered waiting for my parents to pick me up at the airport and thinking surely I had been away for a year. It was only four weeks. But I had jammed so many fresh experiences into those for weeks that I felt time had expanded. This makes travel a kind of time machine, or at least a time expander, a way to get more out of the limits life normally imposes. That is surely one reason why I love travel so much and why Cyn and I were making this journey around the world. The Camino Way was a mini-version of our larger pilgrimage. We were filling each day with more of everything around us, which in turn led to more insights and surprise which made life even more interesting, more joyful, more satisfying, even on rough days.

The route to Pontevedra was idyllic compared to the day before. On day one our battered feet tramped on more pavement than dirt or grass and we saw more cars and trucks than birds or greenery. Today was the opposite. We passed a lovely little chapel as pristine as a cut diamond, and a small farm thick with grapes and peppers and tomatoes.  We found that This section of the Camino Portugués followed Roman Road XIX, a route nearly 2,000 years old and still bearing the worn rock and milestones from the era of the Roman Empire. Circles of yellow sunshine danced through the trees and over moss covered rocks, ferns and birches. If only these rocks could talk, I thought, what stories they could; these thousands upon thousands of pilgrims stretched across time and place in search of salvation and the final resting place of Saint James. At one point I heard a cowbell as we tramped along, and sure enough, there the animal stood among the bushes, indelicately scratching her hind quarters with her back hoof. Clang-clang-clang. I never thought I'd hear that sound in the 21st-century, which shows how much I know about the world.

An Unexpected Fall Near Pontevedra

After a couple of hours we had begun closing in on Pontevedra, but my feet continued losing their battle with the hard ground, and now, not only were my blisters yelping, but Cyn’s had begun to grow a crop of her own. “I hope not,” I said. “Not both of us. We need to find a pharmacy, and get some moleskin.”

Nevertheless, we continued on, in search of relief if nothing else. We were, at least, walking among shaded forest, and had found ourselves walking along a creek of cool water. Out of nowhere among the trees, I stumbled upon a small walled building that seemed to serve no purpose, except as a kind of artistic canvas because it was festooned with artwork, including the silhouetted image of another pilgrim determined to make his way to the grave of the great apostle.

He wore a broad-brimmed Franciscan hat on his head, clearly determined to complete his journey, but static, locked in time. I saluted him as I passed and continued following the stream which must have recently flooded because some of the path was muddy and rutted. For a second I thought I might sit and submerge my crippled feet in the cool water, but decided instead to check my GPS to see how close were to the Pontevedra. That’s when I stuck my foot in a hole and gave it a damn fine twist …

I fell like a sack of beans.

Over time I generally outpace Cyn on our walks. It’s a side effect of having legs considerably longer than hers. I never mean to leave her behind, it’s just that when I turn around to say something, she’s not there! But now she caught up and found me sitting on the damp ground, sock off my left foot, rubbing it as if it were a genie that might deliver a few wishes. If only. Cyn figured I had decided to dip my feet in the cool water too, but I was really checking to see how badly I had twisted my ankle because if it was bad, finishing the hike was going to be a problem. Just getting to Pontevedra was going to be a problem. It wasn’t as if we could hail a taxi and text Uber.

We looked the appendage over. It was nasty, but I had had worse. When I stood up and put weight on it, it wasn’t terrible, as long as I moved forward and stayed on the level. Any turn to the right or left, or any uneven slope or rock, and white shards of sharp pain shot down my leg — thigh to ankle.  I apparently had what doctor’s like to call a high ankle sprain. That was Dr. Walter’s diagnosis, anyhow. Good news. I could walk. Bad news. It takes a long time for this to heal. I put the foot in the creek water right away to reduce the swelling and after 15 minutes, we headed, me limping, into town.

Arrival, Pharmacies, and Finding Relief

Pontevedra is a charming city, larger than Arcade, considerably smaller than Vigo. We found our hotel, a very clean, modern affair located in a part of the town that lay right along The Way. Before we did another thing, we found a farmacia (pharmacy), easily discovered thanks to the neon green crosses that mark each store (essential knowledge if you’re wondering where to buy blister care supplies on the Camino). Inside we bought a few yards of the Compeed® that the store sold. Compeed is a clear, almost elastic tape created to fight blisters by protecting the skin before it’s irritated, or, if it’s too late, after a blister has formed. Either way it saves the skin from the shoe that wants so badly to rub your life miserable. The stuff was a godsend and once we showered we slapped it on with a vengeance. Immediate relief, but still not as good as moleskin in my mind. But as far as we could see Moleskin is not much sold in Europe.

Showered, cooled and thoroughly Compeeded, we ate at the restaurant downstairs. I have no notes to explain what we shoved in our mouths. I’m sure it was good because walking The Way builds the appetite of a marathoner and anything placed on a plate tastes good. Afterwards, with our feet feeling less fiery, we walked the neighborhood, stopped for a couple of cappuccinos as the sun settled toward the horizon and a listened a raucous flock of birds hidden in a nearby tree make a racket that would have done Lead Zeppelin proud. We didn’t last long into the night, charming as the area was. We were fried and sleep beckoned from our air conditioned single beds ending another unforgettable day on the Portuguese Way of the Camino de Santiago.

FAQ

Q1: How long is the walk from Arcade to Pontevedra?

A: The stage is about 7 miles (11 km), making it a relatively easy day compared to longer stretches.

Q2: What challenges should I expect on this route?

A: The path includes hills, uneven ground, and cobblestones, which can cause blisters or even ankle sprains. Heat can also be a factor, so start early and carry water.

Q3: What landmarks will I see along the way?

A: Pilgrims pass the Ponte Sampaio, a Roman-era bridge with ten arches, and sections of the Roman Road 19. The route also winds through forests, chapels, and small farms.

Q4: Who do pilgrims typically meet on this stage?

A: Expect to meet a mix of international travelers, locals, priests, students, and solo walkers. Many walk for spiritual reasons, but others simply for culture, fitness, or adventure.

Q5: How can I treat or prevent blisters on the Camino?

A: Local pharmacies sell Compeed blister pads, which work well for prevention and treatment. Traditional moleskin is less common in Spain, so bring some if you prefer it. Cooling feet in streams, wearing good socks, and taking breaks also help.

 

Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/camino-de-santiago-day-2-arcade-to-pontevedra

Read More

Frolicking Sea Lions in Trinity Island, Antarctica

 

Even after these past days of remarkable views, today’s may be the most remarkable of all. We walk among the penguins enjoying their childlike behavior, see a frolicking leopard seal and gaze on the mountains and glaciers gliding along on our zodiacs, and a solitary penguin wandering his own private glacier. The videos and images tell the story.

From Day 525 of the Vagabond Adventure. You can read more about our Antarctic Expedition here: https://vagabond-adventure.com/vagabond-journal/category/Antarctica

Read More