Journey to Finca Mirador
Our day began, against the roar of the rapids that echo across this small Colombian pueblito, along the banks of el Rio Combeima. We loaded bags into our rented Renault and departed the pavement for a narrow dirt road that seemed randomly scattered with segments of clean, fresh concrete. The further up this valley, the smaller the road became until finally we had to drive across a river and arrived at the small town of La Cascada.
La Cascada is a sleepy, yet proud town with a glistening white school with barely 3 classrooms. We stood inside the local store, with a handful of weathered locals, exchanging stories while enjoying ice cold Aguila light beers. One man, tasked with driving one of the local Willy’s jeeps to transport the public up and down that same road, enjoyed a cold soda.
What seemed like a small army of local dogs roamed around and repeatedly pissed on the tejo fixtures.
A steady, cold rain fell as the matriarch prepared us some cafecitos with local coffee and a pinch of panela.
We soon decided to load the kids on a mule and horse, to begin the hard trek up the mountainside to reach Fabian’s Finca Mirador. Mirador is Spanish for “viewpoint” or “lookout.” And, Fabian’s finca is absolutely perfectly named.
The previous night’s drenching rains made the trail a muddy slog, but eager to arrive at the finca, we carried on. I watched as the mule and horse labored to carry our children mere inches from an almost vertical cliff edge peppered with coffee plants.
“Trust the animals,” I’d shout at Wilder, mostly to put myself at ease.
The trail only narrowed, dropping down into a small valley of sorts where we crossed a crystal-clear mountain creek. The pack animals splashed noisily, putting horseshoes to river rock, while we tested our mettle on a slightly rotting bamboo bridge.
We even bumped into Senor Hector, Fabian’s neighbor. This 75 year old man was casually strolling the trail while workers harvested bananas from his land. He could outrun us all on these mountain paths. Necessity is a helluva drug.
Eventually, signs of habitation - an aged drying bed complete with aged plastic sheeting. Looking above, Fabian’s farm creeped into view even more. A rural concrete home, a bathhouse, drying beds and well-worn dirt paths that connected them all.
Only once we navigated this small maze did we appreciate the view. There is honestly no word for it. It was just purely magical. Absolute unfettered natural beauty where mankind is still but a speck in the soil. Massive green mountains jutted into the sky, with waterfalls scattered amongst them.
We ground a fresh can of Hondorado coffee to share with Fabian’s family and he quickly set off to work. He was preparing a traditional Colombian lunch, and where every single thing was grown on this very land. Even the corn for the freshly grilled arepas was grown, harvested, and even milled right here. As if it could not get any more authentic, we dined on a vintage Colombian table that was handed down through the generations.
Fabian proudly toured us around his property, showing us the depulping area and the well-built drying beds, actively in use from the current harvest underway. We also took some time to help him with his newest construction project, with the kids helping relocate a pile of rocks that were delivered earlier on horseback.
Eventually we decided it was time to head back down the mountain and perhaps share another cerveza at the bottom. We all walked this time, and let the pack animals take a bit of a break.
As we enjoyed those cold beers back at the store in La Cascada, I was reminded about the criticality of human connections in this crazy industry of ours. We all care so deeply about the product - weather it be green or brown.
But in the end, its the relationships and friendships that drive the real value.