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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?

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.

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.

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.