June 27th, 2026 | by Ali Becker
Ali Becker is a freelance writer, adventure storyteller and full-time nomad. She spends half the year traveling by bicycle with her friend, Mat and the other half sleeping in strangers' beds as a professional house sitter. For Quench’d this week, Ali shares about the life lessons she learned from her trip to Colombia.
Ali and Matt are currently getting ready to set out on their next adventure - The Tour Divide. Follow along on their adventure at @trip.longer on IG /wetriplonger on FB. Thanks for joining us on Quench'd, Ali!
Ali Becker is a freelance writer, adventure storyteller and full-time nomad. She spends half the year traveling by bicycle with her friend, Mat and the other half sleeping in strangers' beds as a professional house sitter. For Quench’d this week, Ali shares about the life lessons she learned from her trip to Colombia.
Ali and Matt are currently getting ready to set out on their next adventure - The Tour Divide. Follow along on their adventure at @trip.longer on IG /wetriplonger on FB. Thanks for joining us on Quench'd, Ali!
One of the things I love most about bikepacking is that it's full of the unknown. I never know exactly where I'll sleep, who I'll meet, what I'll eat, or what I'll see throughout the day. I don't know what challenges will come my way, or what lessons the journey has waiting around the next corner.
And that's part of the magic. But it didn't always feel that way.
For much of my life, uncertainty made me uncomfortable. The unknown felt threatening rather than exciting. My mind was skilled at dreaming up worst-case scenarios and inventing problems that didn't yet exist. Instead of wondering what amazing things might happen, I found myself worrying about what could go wrong.
It wasn't until I started travelling by bicycle that I became aware of just how deeply that pattern shaped my life. Rather than enjoying the moment and soaking in the beauty around me, I often found myself fixated on the future.
What if I couldn't find somewhere to camp that night?
What if the store was closed and I couldn't get more food?
What if this fun descent inevitably went back up and I didn't have the energy to conquer it?
One of the things I love most about bikepacking is that it's full of the unknown. I never know exactly where I'll sleep, who I'll meet, what I'll eat, or what I'll see throughout the day. I don't know what challenges will come my way, or what lessons the journey has waiting around the next corner.
And that's part of the magic. But it didn't always feel that way.
For much of my life, uncertainty made me uncomfortable. The unknown felt threatening rather than exciting. My mind was skilled at dreaming up worst-case scenarios and inventing problems that didn't yet exist. Instead of wondering what amazing things might happen, I found myself worrying about what could go wrong.
It wasn't until I started travelling by bicycle that I became aware of just how deeply that pattern shaped my life. Rather than enjoying the moment and soaking in the beauty around me, I often found myself fixated on the future.
What if I couldn't find somewhere to camp that night?
What if the store was closed and I couldn't get more food?
What if this fun descent inevitably went back up and I didn't have the energy to conquer it?
These concerns accounted for a surprising amount of my mental energy, occupying my mind for hours at a time and making it difficult to fully appreciate the adventure unfolding around me.
Looking back, I realize what scared me most in those early days of bike travel wasn't being hungry, tired, or struggling to find a place to camp. It was the feeling of not being in control.Of not knowing exactly how things would work out. And perhaps more than that, of not yet having enough experience to trust that whatever happened, I would find a way through it.
But bike travel has a very practical way of teaching life lessons. The longer I spent moving through a world of uncertainty on two wheels, the more evidence I collected that things usually worked out. Not always in the way I expected, but often in ways that were far more memorable.
The unexpected conversations. The spontaneous detours. The wrong turns that led to hidden campsites. The storms that tested me. The challenges that revealed I was capable of more than I thought.
Over time, the unknown transformed from something I feared into something I looked forward to. Instead of seeing uncertainty as a threat, I began to see it as a source of possibility, a doorway to experiences, lessons, and moments I never could have planned for. And that curiosity is exactly what led me to Colombia.
These concerns accounted for a surprising amount of my mental energy, occupying my mind for hours at a time and making it difficult to fully appreciate the adventure unfolding around me.
Looking back, I realize what scared me most in those early days of bike travel wasn't being hungry, tired, or struggling to find a place to camp. It was the feeling of not being in control.Of not knowing exactly how things would work out. And perhaps more than that, of not yet having enough experience to trust that whatever happened, I would find a way through it.
But bike travel has a very practical way of teaching life lessons. The longer I spent moving through a world of uncertainty on two wheels, the more evidence I collected that things usually worked out. Not always in the way I expected, but often in ways that were far more memorable.
The unexpected conversations. The spontaneous detours. The wrong turns that led to hidden campsites. The storms that tested me. The challenges that revealed I was capable of more than I thought.
Over time, the unknown transformed from something I feared into something I looked forward to. Instead of seeing uncertainty as a threat, I began to see it as a source of possibility, a doorway to experiences, lessons, and moments I never could have planned for. And that curiosity is exactly what led me to Colombia.
Before the Adventure Even Began
The funny thing about my dream of bikepacking Colombia with my friend Mat, was that we didn't even have bikes at the time.
The new bikes we ordered weren't going to arrive until spring, but after another long winter full of grey skies and rain on Canada's West Coast, waiting just wasn't an option. I wanted sunshine, I wanted adventure and I definitely wanted to ride a bike.
So instead of focusing on what we didn't have, Mat and I started asking a different question:
"What would it take to make this happen anyway?"
That question led us to Tingua Hidden Journeys, a Colombian bikepacking company that rents bikes and gear, and helps riders sort out logistics through some of the country's most beautiful regions.
We reached out with the idea of a content partnership. They'd provide the bikes, gear and route support, and we'd share our experience with our audience.
Before the Adventure Even Began
The funny thing about my dream of bikepacking Colombia with my friend Mat, was that we didn't even have bikes at the time.
The new bikes we ordered weren't going to arrive until spring, but after another long winter full of grey skies and rain on Canada's West Coast, waiting just wasn't an option. I wanted sunshine, I wanted adventure and I definitely wanted to ride a bike.
So instead of focusing on what we didn't have, Mat and I started asking a different question:
"What would it take to make this happen anyway?"
That question led us to Tingua Hidden Journeys, a Colombian bikepacking company that rents bikes and gear, and helps riders sort out logistics through some of the country's most beautiful regions.
We reached out with the idea of a content partnership. They'd provide the bikes, gear and route support, and we'd share our experience with our audience.
Needless to say, we were thrilled when they said yes and suddenly, a trip that seemed slightly delusional became real. We didn't ask many questions about the bikes or the bags we'd be using when we arrived. We knew it didn't really matter. We could make anything work.
We also didn't speak much Spanish, and had never ridden at the high elevations of the Central Andes. (In fact, I hadn't seriously considered altitude sickness until someone mentioned it while we were already on our way to Colombia.)
We didn't know what the roads would be like or how difficult the riding would be. We didn't know where we'd stay each night. But after more than 50,000 kilometres of bike travel, I've learned something important: You don't need all the answers before you begin. You just need enough faith to take the first step.
And so we went.
Needless to say, we were thrilled when they said yes and suddenly, a trip that seemed slightly delusional became real. We didn't ask many questions about the bikes or the bags we'd be using when we arrived. We knew it didn't really matter. We could make anything work.
We also didn't speak much Spanish, and had never ridden at the high elevations of the Central Andes. (In fact, I hadn't seriously considered altitude sickness until someone mentioned it while we were already on our way to Colombia.)
We didn't know what the roads would be like or how difficult the riding would be. We didn't know where we'd stay each night. But after more than 50,000 kilometres of bike travel, I've learned something important: You don't need all the answers before you begin. You just need enough faith to take the first step.
And so we went.
The People You Never Expect to Meet
One of the most beautiful things about adventure is the people you meet along the way.
On our second day of riding, we were climbing toward the páramo, one of Colombia's high-altitude ecosystems, often referred to as the country's water towers.
Many visiting bike travellers dream of wild camping here. The landscape is unique and stunning, dotted with rare plants called frailejones that seem almost otherworldly.
It's also cold, wet, and located at high elevations.
The higher we climbed, the colder it became, and before long the rain arrived in droves. Just as the skies opened up, we spotted two women locking the door of a small blue roadside tienda, putting up their umbrellas, and preparing to head home.
As they turned and took in our cold, soaked appearance, they immediately changed course. They unlocked the door, swung it open, and welcomed us inside.
The People You Never Expect to Meet
One of the most beautiful things about adventure is the people you meet along the way.
On our second day of riding, we were climbing toward the páramo, one of Colombia's high-altitude ecosystems, often referred to as the country's water towers.
Many visiting bike travellers dream of wild camping here. The landscape is unique and stunning, dotted with rare plants called frailejones that seem almost otherworldly.
It's also cold, wet, and located at high elevations.
The higher we climbed, the colder it became, and before long the rain arrived in droves. Just as the skies opened up, we spotted two women locking the door of a small blue roadside tienda, putting up their umbrellas, and preparing to head home.
As they turned and took in our cold, soaked appearance, they immediately changed course. They unlocked the door, swung it open, and welcomed us inside.
We tucked our bikes against the side of the building and hurried in. Inside, we found shelter, hot aguapanela, fresh arepas, and were soon joined by another bike traveller we had met earlier that day. The woman who ran the tienda and her young daughter quickly realized we were wet, cold, and planning to continue into the mountains. The daughter, maybe eight or nine years old, disappeared into the back room and returned carrying her English workbook from school. Together, using her translation book, hand gestures, smiles, and a healthy dose of patience, we pieced together a conversation. When they realized we were planning to camp in the cold rain, they offered us a place to stay in a small house they owned nearby.
That morning, when we started riding, we had no idea where we would sleep that night. By evening, complete strangers had welcomed us in from the storm. When we arrived at the slightly weathered shack, we were beyond grateful. It wasn't fancy, but it was dry, sheltered from the wind and rain, and offered a roof over our tents.
The next morning, we returned for breakfast, thanked them for their generosity, and waved goodbye as the little girl climbed onto her school bus with a smile. It's one of those memories that will stay with me long after the details of the route have faded. A reminder that some of the most meaningful moments can't be planned, predicted, or found on a map. They emerge from uncertainty, and from having the courage to step into it
A Coffee Stop in the Rain
A few days later, we found ourselves climbing once again (a common theme in Colombia). This time, we had left the colonial town of El Cocuy and were making our way toward the Sierra Nevada del Cocuy.
As we climbed toward these stunning equatorial glaciers, the weather slowly began to turn and the altitude started making itself known. To be honest, we weren't feeling particularly strong. After a few breaks to catch our breath, we spotted a small roadside cabin with a hand-painted sign advertising tinto, Colombia's beloved black coffee.
So we stopped.
We tucked our bikes against the side of the building and hurried in. Inside, we found shelter, hot aguapanela, fresh arepas, and were soon joined by another bike traveller we had met earlier that day. The woman who ran the tienda and her young daughter quickly realized we were wet, cold, and planning to continue into the mountains. The daughter, maybe eight or nine years old, disappeared into the back room and returned carrying her English workbook from school. Together, using her translation book, hand gestures, smiles, and a healthy dose of patience, we pieced together a conversation. When they realized we were planning to camp in the cold rain, they offered us a place to stay in a small house they owned nearby.
That morning, when we started riding, we had no idea where we would sleep that night. By evening, complete strangers had welcomed us in from the storm. When we arrived at the slightly weathered shack, we were beyond grateful. It wasn't fancy, but it was dry, sheltered from the wind and rain, and offered a roof over our tents.
The next morning, we returned for breakfast, thanked them for their generosity, and waved goodbye as the little girl climbed onto her school bus with a smile. It's one of those memories that will stay with me long after the details of the route have faded. A reminder that some of the most meaningful moments can't be planned, predicted, or found on a map. They emerge from uncertainty, and from having the courage to step into it
A Coffee Stop in the Rain
A few days later, we found ourselves climbing once again (a common theme in Colombia). This time, we had left the colonial town of El Cocuy and were making our way toward the Sierra Nevada del Cocuy.
As we climbed toward these stunning equatorial glaciers, the weather slowly began to turn and the altitude started making itself known. To be honest, we weren't feeling particularly strong. After a few breaks to catch our breath, we spotted a small roadside cabin with a hand-painted sign advertising tinto, Colombia's beloved black coffee.
So we stopped.
At first, it felt like a chance to warm up and escape the rain. But it soon became one of the most memorable encounters of the entire trip. The property belonged to Juan Carlos Carreño, whose family has lived, worked, and guided people in the region for generations. Over steaming cups of coffee, he shared stories of his ancestors, the surrounding mountains, and the glaciers that tower above the valley.
He pulled out photo albums filled with old photographs of the land and the people connected to it. He spoke passionately about protecting the páramo ecosystem and educating visitors about the retreating glaciers. Communication wasn't always easy. Google Translate did a lot of the heavy lifting. But what came through clearly was his love for this place. His pride, his passion and his commitment to preserving it rubbed off on us.
Had it not been raining, we probably would have kept riding. Had we been feeling stronger, we might not have stopped. Had we been focused solely on making miles or reaching some predetermined destination, we never would have met him. Instead, we followed our instincts, stepped inside for a coffee, and spent an afternoon learning from someone whose life was deeply intertwined with the landscape we were travelling through.
It's another reminder that some of the richest travel experiences aren't the ones we plan for, they're the ones we leave space for.
At first, it felt like a chance to warm up and escape the rain. But it soon became one of the most memorable encounters of the entire trip. The property belonged to Juan Carlos Carreño, whose family has lived, worked, and guided people in the region for generations. Over steaming cups of coffee, he shared stories of his ancestors, the surrounding mountains, and the glaciers that tower above the valley.
He pulled out photo albums filled with old photographs of the land and the people connected to it. He spoke passionately about protecting the páramo ecosystem and educating visitors about the retreating glaciers. Communication wasn't always easy. Google Translate did a lot of the heavy lifting. But what came through clearly was his love for this place. His pride, his passion and his commitment to preserving it rubbed off on us.
Had it not been raining, we probably would have kept riding. Had we been feeling stronger, we might not have stopped. Had we been focused solely on making miles or reaching some predetermined destination, we never would have met him. Instead, we followed our instincts, stepped inside for a coffee, and spent an afternoon learning from someone whose life was deeply intertwined with the landscape we were travelling through.
It's another reminder that some of the richest travel experiences aren't the ones we plan for, they're the ones we leave space for.
Looking back, Colombia was full of moments like that. Unexpected kindness. Meaningful conversations. Difficult challenges. Incredible beauty.
There were steep climbs, remote mountain roads, weather that changed without warning, and the constant excitement of not knowing what was waiting around the next corner.
For me, those uncertainties are some of the most meaningful parts of any journey. Along with change, they are one of life's few constants.
These days, I've come to realize that confidence doesn't come from knowing exactly how everything will unfold. It comes from repeatedly showing yourself that you can handle whatever unfolds.
That's what bike travel has taught me.
Not certainty, but trust.
Looking back, Colombia was full of moments like that. Unexpected kindness. Meaningful conversations. Difficult challenges. Incredible beauty.
There were steep climbs, remote mountain roads, weather that changed without warning, and the constant excitement of not knowing what was waiting around the next corner.
For me, those uncertainties are some of the most meaningful parts of any journey. Along with change, they are one of life's few constants.
These days, I've come to realize that confidence doesn't come from knowing exactly how everything will unfold. It comes from repeatedly showing yourself that you can handle whatever unfolds.
That's what bike travel has taught me.
Not certainty, but trust.
Trust that challenges will arise. Trust that plans will change. Trust that things won't always go the way you expect. And trust that you'll find a way through. Colombia reminded me that uncertainty isn't something we need to eliminate before we begin. It's often the very reason to begin.
If we had waited until we had the perfect bikes, spoke better Spanish, understood altitude sickness, and had every detail figured out, we probably never would have gone. And if we hadn't gone, we never would have met the little girl with the translation book. We never would have shared coffee with Juan while learning about Colombia's retreating glaciers. We never would have been welcomed in from the rain by strangers who became one of our favourite memories from the trip. We never would have experienced the countless moments of generosity, beauty, challenge, and connection that made the journey unforgettable.
So these days, I've come to see the unknown differently. What once felt threatening now feels full of possibility. The more I try to control every outcome, the more anxious I become. The more willing I am to let go, trust the process, and meet whatever comes my way, the richer life seems to become. Because some of the best things that have happened to me were things I never could have planned for. They were waiting on the other side of uncertainty.
What lies ahead is still unknown. But that's no longer the part that scares me. It's the part that excites me most.
Trust that challenges will arise. Trust that plans will change. Trust that things won't always go the way you expect. And trust that you'll find a way through. Colombia reminded me that uncertainty isn't something we need to eliminate before we begin. It's often the very reason to begin.
If we had waited until we had the perfect bikes, spoke better Spanish, understood altitude sickness, and had every detail figured out, we probably never would have gone. And if we hadn't gone, we never would have met the little girl with the translation book. We never would have shared coffee with Juan while learning about Colombia's retreating glaciers. We never would have been welcomed in from the rain by strangers who became one of our favourite memories from the trip. We never would have experienced the countless moments of generosity, beauty, challenge, and connection that made the journey unforgettable.
So these days, I've come to see the unknown differently. What once felt threatening now feels full of possibility. The more I try to control every outcome, the more anxious I become. The more willing I am to let go, trust the process, and meet whatever comes my way, the richer life seems to become. Because some of the best things that have happened to me were things I never could have planned for. They were waiting on the other side of uncertainty.
What lies ahead is still unknown. But that's no longer the part that scares me. It's the part that excites me most.
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