If you’re asking yourself where you should go on vacation this year, you’re not alone. And there’s no shortage of “where to go” lists this time of year—competing compendiums of new hotels and resorts, trendy neighborhoods, and cultural hotspots to check out in the year ahead.

This is not that list. Not exactly, anyways.

As adventure addicts, we wanted to craft a roster of amazing destinations where you can get outdoors, camp, paddle, surf, hike, and crush some dynamic singletrack. Our overriding parameters determining what made the cut was simple: what’s cool and fresh in the world outside?

The answer? Plenty.

Here’s Where to Go on Vacation in 2025, If You’re Into These Outdoor Pursuits

Every one of these destinations promises an amazing adventure, whether that’s carving down a fresh-cut ski run, tackling a section of a new thru-hiking terrain, or releasing turtles on the beaches of Mexico. These trips all come with good food, great vistas, and unforgettable cultural experiences. And yes, a few even have luxe places to crash at night, too.

Many of these destinations are in the beginning phases of executing ambitious goals, and we included them to offer a glimpse of what’s to come. Others are perennial favorites that have simply been overlooked by online-influencer culture and thus remain indelibly cool in real life. In other words, we’re offering up some new options and some classic standbys. We also included both domestic and international destinations for each type of adventure, in case you’re feeling particularly wanderlusty (or a staycation).

Together, they prove, once again, that there’s no shortage of fun to have outside. Here’s where to travel in 2025 if you’re up for it.

1. Long Walks (or Runs)

Stay Domestic: Cross Texas Trail, Texas

Beginning this year, Texas will get its own thru-hiking epic, the new Cross Texas Trail, a proposed 1,500-mile-long haul that stretches from the Louisiana border in the east, near the town of Orange, to El Paso in the west. Among the many highlights of the planned xTx, as it is known: panoramic views of Hill Country, the rugged peaks of Big Bend Ranch State Park, East Texas barbecue joints, the crystal-clear Devil’s River, and the highest point in Texas, Guadalupe Peak, at 8,751 feet.

The trail, designed for hikers, bikers, and equestrians, is a work in progress, but the route features a mix of singletrack and paved and gravel backcountry public roads. You can ride much of the route now, but the nonprofit behind the xTx—led by bike advocate, former community design consultant, and state representative Charlie Gandy—is currently working on access to some private ranch land so that riders can more easily enter some sections of state and national parks. In the future, there could even be trailheads equipped with picnic areas, water stations, and campsites, but for now, it’s all a self-supported, DIY affair. The trail has a long way to go to match the history of the Appalachian Trail or the sheer beauty of the Pacific Crest Trail, but it could be one of the best, if longest, ways to experience the hardscrabble charm of the Lone Star State.

Go Abroad: Palmilhar Portugal, Portugal

Portugal is about to get its own version of Spain’s Camino de Santiago, a new 3,000-kilometer (1,850 miles) loop trail that is being billed as the world’s longest circular hiking route. The trail, called (or “Walking Portugal”, in English), will eventually pass through over 100 off-the-beaten-path attractions around the country, from windmills and vineyards outside Lisbon to mountain peaks in the north. Most of the trail is still under construction, but initial sections opened last summer, and new routes are being added regularly throughout 2025. While mostly a hiking trail, Palmilhar Portugal will have some sections open to cyclists, too. The team behind Palmihar Portugal plans to launch an app later this year, , that will help visitors look up information about the route and the services along the way, including places to stay, restaurants, and points of interest.

2. Fat-Tire and Mountain-Biking Fun

Stay Domestic: Killington Bike Park, Vermont

In the fall of 2024, , in Vermont’s Green Mountains, was purchased by a passionate group of local investors who promised big changes to New England’s iconic ski area, including a in capital improvements over the next two seasons. Those upgrades include an expansion to its already impressive bike park, with 30 miles of lift-accessed mountain-biking trails.

Beginning in 2025, the park will get a new trail, accessed by the Ramshead Express Quad, and other improvements are in the works. The new trail (dubbed Ramshead, construction on which starts this spring) will start at the top of the lift and snake down the mountain for more than two miles. Even without the new upgrades, the bike park is one of the best in the East, with features like berms, tabletops, and bridges that cater to intermediate and advanced riders alike. Its signature trail, “,” is a steep, technical descent with rock gardens and big jumps, but there are plenty of smoother trails for beginner downhillers, too. (One-day passes begin at $65.) Off the trails, Killington’s base area is buzzing with its new enhancements on the horizon, and everything points to this year being the start of upgraded riding to come for Killington.

Go Abroad: Mogo Trails Project, Australia

Like many areas rich in adventure bona fides—British Columbia, South Africa, New Zealand—Australia is investing heavily in new trails for mountain bike aficionados, and one the largest ongoing projects is , in New South Wales.

The expansive trail network, roughly four hours south of Sydney, is being developed near the town of Mogo, a tiny outpost adjacent to the area’s temperate rainforests.Ìę Mogo Trails is being designed for various skill levels, from beginners to advanced riders, with a mix of park-style gravity trails with jumps and cross-country trails.

Currently, there are about 70km of singletrack ready for riders, with a total of 130km planned to be completed in 2025 and beyond. Finished trails are listed on, along with descriptions of each one. If you’re coming from Sydney, you’ll need to book lodging nearby. Batemans Bay, a version of an Oregon beach town Down Under, has excellent options, including , an upscale motel that also offers easy access to surf breaks just down the beach. (From $140 per night.) The much larger town of Canberra, the capital of Australia, is two hours away. Other nearby mountain bike trails, like the new Narooma Trails, which opened in 2023, are making the area a legitimate international destination for MTB enthusiasts.

3. Fresh Piste

Stay Domestic: Deer Valley Resort, Utah

Over the next few years, Park City’s Deer Valley Resort is undergoing a , with a new base village, 100 new trails on 2,600 acres of fresh terrain, and more than 10 new lifts to access it all, including a 10-passenger gondola. When it’s all said and done, the resort will double in size to over 5,700 acres, making it one of the ten largest ski resorts in the United States.

The transformation is already under way. Debuting for the 2024–2025 season are three new chairlifts, 300 acres of terrain, and freshly cut trails leading to the new East Village. When it’s complete, the East Village will offer the same level of premium service that Deer Valley has become known for, with restaurants, retail shops, and an ice-skating facility, among other facilities. Of course, for day skiers, perhaps the biggest draw of the new East Village is that it’s located on U.S. Route 40, which allows you to avoid driving through the heart of Park City itself, often crowded with traffic.

For now, the brand-new , with 381 guest rooms and suites, anchors the East Village, and it’s the only place to stay on that side of the resort. (From $270 per night.) But the hotel has more than enough amenities to keep you comfortable, including a restaurant and bar, a downstairs speakeasy-style lounge, a coffeeshop, a heated outdoor pool, three hot tubs, and a partnership with Ski Butlers to offer white-glove ski valet service when suiting up for the day. There’s even a , a High Tea service but instead of tea and hand sandwiches, you get hot chocolate paired with s’mores cookies, chocolate snowballs, and other baked goods.

Go Abroad: Andermatt Ski Area, Switzerland

Unknown to most Americans, the combined ski resorts of , an hour and a half south of Zurich, is poised to become one of Europe’s premier ski destinations. Over the last handful of years, more than $2 billion has been invested in upgrades, with ten new lifts that allowed you to ski all three by accessing any one of them. Combined, the resorts have more than 100 miles of trails.

The historic village of Andermatt, with cobblestone streets and a very Swiss vibe, has also been undergoing a series of renovations to accommodate the influx of skiers. This winter, for example, it unveiled a brand-new shopping and dining district featuring 35 stores and 10 restaurants. The resort is also on track to become carbon neutral by 2030, a hugely ambitious goal for such a large operation.

For American skiers, it’s also become easier to shred: In 2022, Vail acquired majority ownership in the resort, which means that it’s now . With over 12 feet of average annual snowfall, a range of terrain—from blue and yellow runs to steep couloirs and powder-filled bowls—Andermatt is one of the best resorts in all of Europe. And with a master plan mapped out for the next 30 years, now is the time to go, before the hordes descend.

4. Beach Vibes

Stay Domestic: Cape Hatteras, North Carolina

As part of North Carolina’s Outer Banks, Cape Hatteras is known for its expansive East-Coast beaches, world-class kiteboarding, and laid-back charm. It’s also now home to one of the more exciting Atlantic Coast lodging conversions in years: , a 14-room wellness-oriented hotel that faces Pamlico Sound, a vast expanse of shallow water good for both paddling and kiting. The hotel opened last year after owners bought a failed, two-story strip mall and transformed it into a chic hotel with suites designed by world-famous interior designer Jonathan Adler.

If that turns you off, don’t let it. The result is a quirky mashup of coastal kitsch and beach sophistication with a focus on outdoor recreation. There’s even an outdoor deck featuring cold plunges, a sauna, and a hot tub for relaxing in after a long day on the saltwater. (From $179 per night.) And its location, adjacent to the entire length of the Cape Hatteras National Seashore—where windswept dunes and unspoiled stretches of sand offer endless opportunities for surfing, fishing, and paddleboarding—leads to a perfect blend adventure and tranquility in one of the most celebrated beach destinations in the U.S.

Go Abroad: Nicaragua’s Pacific Coast

Ìę Nicaragua’s Pacific Coastline has long been considered one of the best stretches of remote coastline in Central America, with excellent surf breaks framed by undeveloped sand beaches and tropical forest. Now, thanks to an ongoing , it’s about to get much easier to access much of the coastline.

The country’s new Carratera Costanera Highway, or Emerald Coast Highway, will stretch more than 350 kilometers (217 miles) from the Gulf of Fonseca in the north to Playa El Naranjo in the south, making it smoother and safer to travel along the coastline. Construction has already , near San Juan del Sur, which is known as the country’s surf capital, because of its proximity to some of Nicaragua’s . Up and down the coastline, you’ll find a variety of waves, from mellow beach breaks to beefy points, with consistent year-round swell (although the summer months remain the best).

The promise of easy access is already drawing development interest to the coastline and new tourist offerings, like the newly refreshed and reopened , which was the country’s first true luxury eco-resort when it opened in 2013. (From $776 per night.) The resort has direct walking access to a world-class surf break just off of its private beach. While funding is secured for the road construction, the pace of progress is nearly impossible to predict, so don’t expect to be driving down a long stretch of empty, freshly paved highway this year. (Also, the U.S. State Department has a for the country, in part because of the government’s arbitrary enforcement of laws, although like Costa Rica or Panama, Nicaragua is generally safe for tourists if you exercise caution). But if you want to experience the surf breaks before the rush on the rapidly developing coastline, now is the time to go.

5. Paddling Pristine Backcountry

Stay Domestic: Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, Minnesota

In January 2023, the Biden administration helped ban mining and geothermal exploration on over 225,000 acres of land in the Superior National Forest, preserving the integrity of the Rainy River watershed and the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness in the process.

With President Trump in power again, however, advocates are once again worried that the BWCAW, one of the most pristine landscapes in the Lower 48, could return to becoming a political football. If so, it could be tossed back into the hands of the Chilean-owned mining conglomerate that has been seeking to open a copper-sulfide mine in the area for years. All of which is a good reason to explore the area now, to see firsthand just how special this landscape is.

Spanning over a million acres of North Woods forest dotted with thousands of lakes, this is a paddler’s paradise, with more than 1,200 miles of canoe routes and 2,000 campsites, most of which are paddle-in only. If you want a break from modern life and all its real-time annoyances and aggravations, the BWCAW has always been one of the best places to do it, and now you can show your tacit political support for the area simply by enjoying a weekend paddle through it.

Go Abroad: Pacuare River, Costa Rica

The Pacuare River, roughly 60 miles east of San JosĂ©, is not only one of the best tropical rafting trips on the planet—and by extension one of the best ways to experience Costa Rica’s wild side—it’s also “home” to the perennial favorite . With 20 suites, a restaurant, and a spa set along the riverbank, the lodge has set an impossibly high standard for eco-luxury in the heart of the rainforest. (From $949 per night.)

The best part, however, is that arriving at Picuare requires getting on the water first. With no road into the property, guests float down the Pacuare’s class II–V rapids, through canyons and untouched jungle, and arrive via boat on the lodge’s front steps. Despite its remoteness, it’s full of amenities. Each suite has a range of luxuries like outdoor showers, spring-fed fountains, and plunge pools. The restaurant serves exceptionally high-quality, fresh ingredients and the spa has wellness programs that include open-air yoga sessions and treatments inspired by indigenous traditions. The surrounding forest is home to toucans, sloths, and howler monkeys, and non-river activities include guided rainforest hikes to see the wildlife, zip-lining, and visiting local CabĂ©car communities. The lodge itself is worthy of a visit alone, but combined with its entrance theatrics—a float down the whitewater of Pacuare River—the experience may just offer the perfect balance of adventure and indulgences for a weekend jungle-induced rejuvenation. Pura vida indeed.

6. Camping (with Creature Comforts)

Stay Domestic: Yosemite, California

Outdoor-oriented hospitality group is expanding once again, this time to an 80-acre camp near Yosemite National Park. Ever since it started with a single glamping resort in West Yellowstone in 2012, the company has grown year over year to offer overnight access to some of America’s most iconic destinations, including Great Smoky Mountains, the Grand Canyon, and Moab (thanks to its luxury offshoot ULUM Moab).

is the company’s first foray into California, and it will feature the same safari-inspired tents—with king-size beds, a private deck, and ensuite bathrooms—that have made its 13 other locations so popular. There will also be regular activities in the camp, such as live music, morning yoga, and nightly fires with s’mores. (The seasonal camp runs from May 15 to October 27 in 2025, and rates start at $349 per night, meals not included.)

But perhaps the best reason to book a stay here while visiting Yosemite National Park is the easy access it affords. The camp is located just ten minutes from the west entrance to the park and, more importantly, across from a bus stop for the Yosemite Area Regional Transportation System (YARTS). Without a reservation in summer, you are no longer allowed to enter the park by car. So staying at Under Canvas Yosemite means you not only get all the amenities, but you also get easy, car-free access to the park.

Go Abroad: Playa Viva, Mexico

On a remote beach 35 miles south of Zihuatanejo lies one of the most ecologically sensitive, off-grid, wellness-focused resorts on the planet: . This is far from camping, but the 19 open-air treehouses and casitas, designed with bamboo and other sustainable woods, will make it feel as if you’re poaching a nap on the last stretch of perfect sand in all of Mexico.

Each room has unobstructed views of the beach, with nothing to be seen either direction besides palm trees, Pacific waves, and the occasional breaching whale. Set on 200 coastal acres, Playa Viva is home to a vibrant turtle sanctuary, a regenerative farm, and mangrove forest. The resort supports local communities through various initiatives and actively works to help restore surrounding ecosystems. Guests can even participate in activities like helping release baby sea turtles (during the fall hatching season).

The on-site restaurant even serves farm-to-table dishes that celebrate the region’s culinary heritage. Think fresh-caught seafood, handmade tortillas, and tropical fruits picked just steps from your casita. Daily beachside yoga classes and a variety of massage services round out the offerings. Again, you’re not exactly roughing it, but the resort is a world away in a wild, pristine corner of Mexico. (Summer low-season rates begin at $240 per night.)

7. Wildlife Encounters

Stay Domestic: American Prairie Reserve, Montana

When it was established in 2004, —a private, nonprofit effort to create the largest wildlife reserve in the continental U.S. at three million acres—seemed like nothing more than a pipe dream. But the group has steadily managed to acquire an impressive amount of land on Montana’s Northern Great Plains in their effort to reestablish a functioning ecosystem that supports free-roaming wildlife.

In December, APR , which brings their total to over half a million acres of deeded land and leased public property. Thanks to all the efforts over the years, the reserve is now home to a wealth of iconic wildlife, including herds of bison, elk, and pronghorn. It also contains some of the most remote areas of the lower-48 states, with a diverse landscape—from sagebrush plains to riparian areas to the steep hills of the Missouri Breaks—that offers visitors the chance to see wildlife in their natural habitat.

The APR’s National Discovery Center has excellent exhibits about the prairie ecosystem, and is the best place to learn about the reserve’s hiking, biking, and camping opportunities, especially considering that it continues to expand its offerings, which includes interpretive programs. But as a quick-start option, one of the best ways to experience the wildlife is by camping at , located four miles north of the Charles M. Russell National Wildlife Refuge on the rolling shortgrass prairie. (RV sites are $19 per night and tent sites are $13.) Here, you’re almost certain to see plains bison and pronghorn roaming past prairie dog towns and get a much deeper connection to one of the most overlooked landscapes in the U.S. The American Prairie Reserve isn’t just a trip, it’s a chance to witness (and participate in) conservation history in the making.

Go Abroad: Clayoquot Wilderness Lodge, British Columbia

Tucked into a Pacific Ocean inlet on Vancouver Island’s wild west coast, is perhaps the most luxurious gateway to British Columbia’s wildlife-rich temperate rainforest. It may also be the best way to see the area’s charismatic, iconic species, from black bears and eagles to whales and otters.

The lodge’s 25 canvas tents, which are lavishly appointed with specially made furnishings, king-sized beds, and wood-burning stoves, offer guests the perfect blend of off-grid seclusion and high-end comfort. (From $3,300 per night.)

Meals focus on hyper-local, foraged ingredients crafted into exquisite dishes. Committed to sustainability, the seasonal lodge operates with an extremely light footprint, relying on renewable energy to power the camp. It also supports local First Nations communities through cultural exchange programs and eco-tourism partnerships. All of which makes staying here feeling as if you’re part of a very lucky family.

But the real reason to come are the wildlife excursions, which includes hiking or horseback rides in the forest to see and sea kayaking outings on the inlet, where it’s common to spot whales, porpoises, seals, and sea lions. And this is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg when it comes to the lodge’s eco-adventure program. For those seeking a communion with nature that has more than a dash of indulgence, Clayoquot offers an unforgettable escape into the wild heart of British Columbia.

Ryan Krogh is a writer and editor who lives in Austin, Texas. Among the dozens of destinations that he traveled to in 2024, including Iceland, England, and a road trip through Mexico’s highlands, his favorite was a weekend fly-fishing trip to the Texas Coast. In 2025, he’s hoping to see Nicaragua and Portugal for the first time, which is why they’re included here, but he also has plans to explore the new “Gulf of America” coast, whatever that is. He has recently written about the world’s best airports with cool outdoor spaces, the beginner’s guide to carry-on luggage, and the most dog-friendly beaches in the U.S.

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As the cold settles in, we’re thinking about those places we know will have sun, blue skies, warm turquoise waters, and amazing adventures all winter long. Start dreaming and maybe scheming. We’ve made it easy for you by choosing the top 10 places to go, along with the best things to do there. See you on the beach.

Hike Coast-to-Coast in Costa Rica

Since Costa Rica became the spokesmodel for ecotourism in the 1990s, its natural treasures—the cloud forests of Monte Verde, the gently active Arenal volcano—have attracted millions of visitors every year. But you can still escape the crowds. a 174-mile trail stretching between the Caribbean and the Pacific, was completed in 2018 and showcases largely untrodden parts of the country, like the coffee-growing region of TarrazĂș and the Indigenous territory of Nairi Awari.

Funded by the nonprofit Mar a Mar Association, the 16-stage route spans four provinces and half a dozen or more microclimates; borders protected areas; and passes through remote villages, Native lands, and more than 20 towns that receive little benefit from conventional tourism. Trekkers can eat with locals in their homes and sleep in family-run lodges, campsites, or boutique hotels set on farms with hot springs.

Expect to hike between four and twenty-four miles per stage, cross rivers, and do plenty of up and down—more than 70 percent of the route is hilly, with a peak elevation of upward of 19,000 feet. If you push the pace, you can complete the whole thing in 11 days. But if time permits, allot 16 days so you can tack on experiences like whitewater rafting the Pacuare River or visiting the Pacuare Nature Reserve’s turtle hatchery.

You could technically go it alone, but given the trail’s isolation, a guide is advisable. Five local outfitters, including Urri Trek and Ticos a Pata, operate group and individual trips, and their naturalist guides will school you in the unique flora and fauna, like purple tibouchina flowers, massive guanacaste trees, glasswing butterflies, and broad-billed hummingbirds. —Jen Murphy

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During a trip to Nicaragua in September of 2019, I saw the words “Pray for Surfers” graffitied across a boarded-up restaurant like a desperate plea. The year before that, I’d shared the waves with crowds of adventure tourists from around the world. Now I paddled out with just a couple of locals. The message was clear: Nicaraguans needed foreign surfers—and their tourism dollars—to return.

During the previous decade, the country had pushed aside its war-torn reputation, acquired in the 1970s and ’80s, and was touted as the next “it” destination for adventure travelers. Then, in April 2018, president Daniel Ortega ordered police to silence peaceful urban protests over social-security cuts. Reports of deaths and violence made international headlines, and Nicaragua’s tourism boom went bust almost overnight.

By early 2019, the U.S. State Department was urging Americans not to head there, “due to civil unrest and arbitrary enforcement of laws.” As a travel writer who frequently explores far corners of the world, I chose to go anyway. I knew from speaking to my contacts on the ground that the political violence wasn’t aimed at visitors, nor was it taking place in every part of the country. Friends and family, however, questioned my decision. “What’s wrong with the waves in Costa Rica?” asked my mom. Scolded a friend: “Your travel dollars are supporting an unjust dictatorship.”

But it’s my belief that, at the time, local businesses in Nicaragua—surf instructors, taco shops, and small hotels, among others—needed my tourism dollars more than others elsewhere did. Writing about travel provides me access to a global community of guides and outfitters, and I’m aware just how much tourism can positively impact destinations that have weathered political unrest or natural disasters. Tourism dollars really do improve the lives of locals.

This assertion starkly contrasts with conventional thought, which is to steer clear of such places. Tourists often fear that visiting an afflicted area will impede recovery efforts and further burden resources and infrastructure. (This may be true in some cases, like immediately after a natural disaster, so doing the research before traveling to such areas is crucial. More on this later.) There is also the ethical quandary of sitting on a beach enjoying yourself while locals rebuild their lives. But Jack Ezon, founder of the travel agency Embark Beyond, told me that the period following a calamitous event is often when local communities need tourism dollars most.

“By visiting, you are literally keeping food on people’s table. You are giving them the dignity of having a job and helping them get back on their feet,” says Ezon, a 20-year veteran of the adventure-travel industry.

The closure devastated area businesses. Enrique Umbert, CEO of the outfitter Mountain Lodges of Peru, estimates that thousands of tourism professionals were put out of work in a single month. “It feels like COVID again,” he says. “We lost two months of our key booking season. We typically project $1 million of bookings in a month, and as of mid-February we’re only selling $100,000.” Umbert had to furlough employees and temporarily reduce salaries—up to 50 percent for some of his workers. He also deferred his own paycheck. “My heart goes out to our indirect staff, like our guides, drivers, and community partners,” he says. “They’re really struggling.”

Prior to the unrest, longtime backpacker Jamie Thomas booked a trip to Peru through Condor Travel. In the months leading up to her February departure, she read that more than 50 people had died in battles with police. She also scanned Peruvian-travel Facebook groups and learned that visitors weren’t being targeted by cops or protestors. Thomas, who lives in Omaha, Nebraska, decided to go ahead with her trip, even though the country’s main attraction was closed. Her tour operator learned that there was a chance Machu Picchu would reopen February 15, the day Thomas and the rest of her group were scheduled to fly home. Everyone voted to extend the trip.

The decision paid off. The group was one of the first to climb the citadel’s magnificent stone terraces once it reopened. Thomas admits that the large police and army presence in the streets of Lima and Cuzco could be unnerving, but she never felt unsafe. Her group arrived by train in Aguas Calientes, Machu Picchu’s typically overrun gateway town, and found it deserted. “To take in those landscapes and ruins without the selfie sticks and other tour groups is a memory that lasts forever,” she says.

Perhaps even more memorable was the welcome Thomas and her group received from locals in Aguas Calientes. Owners of the eco-tourism company Inkaterra gave them a special deal at their top hotel, and staff seemed overjoyed to have visitors—and revenue. “Their gratefulness is something I’ll never forget,” Thomas says. “The media scared off so many travelers. It felt good to take a chance and know we were helping show the world Peru was ready to welcome back tourists.”

Of course, journeying to unstable regions can invite danger, and travelers should educate themselves and prepare prior to leaving. Melissa Biggs Bradley, founder of the tourism firm Indagare, extensively researches destinations in advance, digging into matters such as: How did local governments and services prioritize traveler safety during past major events, like the pandemic? Are groups targeting tourists? Is the disaster or unrest happening in the region she plans to travel to, or is it in a different part of the country? Biggs Bradley also recommends investing in a membership with Global Rescue or Global Guardian—companies that provide up-to-date alerts and evacuation services during natural disasters and civil unrest.

The media’s portrayal of destinations affected by hurricanes, earthquakes, political unrest, war, and other hardship is often what deters tourists from visiting. But Biggs Bradley knows that news reports don’t always provide the whole picture.

There’s another benefit of traveling to crisis areas: human-to-human exchanges can lead to a better understanding of locals and a more thoughtful perspective on other countries. “Travel gives us the power to make up our own mind about a situation,” says Biggs Bradley. While she doesn’t support the government policies in Iran, Cuba, or Zimbabwe, she believes that it’s important to visit those countries. “People are not their government,” she says. “I’m glad people don’t judge me based on America’s politics. I think it’s important to have an open dialogue with vulnerable communities.”

Then, in 2017, the șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Travel Trade Association invited me to join other journalists on a trek in Jordan, from the city of Dana to the archeological site of Petra along a portion of the new 420-mile Jordan Trail. Prior to accepting, I reached out to Shannon Stowell, the organization’s CEO, for reassurance. During the 2011 uprising, Stowell was in Egypt, one of the two countries whose governments were toppled in the wave of protest. He told me that the Western perception of Egypt’s safety didn’t jibe with reality.

Stowell says he toured Tahrir Square the same day CNN published a story on Egypt featuring years-old images of tanks and soldiers. “I remember thinking, You’ve got to be kidding me. This just set the country back again,” Stowell told me. He saw no violence or weapons of war in Egypt; instead, he toured the pyramids with dozens, rather than thousands, of visitors and never once felt a sense of threat. During a meeting with Margaret Scobey, the U.S. ambassador to Egypt at the time, Stowell urged her to ask the State Department to downgrade its current level-four travel advisory (the most severe). “It wasn’t even on her radar,” he says. “It was adjusted within a month. That one change can have a very direct impact on a region.” (While travelers should check State Department levels, keep in mind that the agency is overly cautious and broad when issuing travel advisories.)

Stowell told me that Jordan—which had been mostly peaceful—was enduring a halo effect from years of violence in surrounding countries. He explained that journalists like me had the power to pierce the veil of misconception. I agreed to join the trip. Weeks later I met a Bedouin staffer at an eco-lodge in Dana. We climbed up to the hotel’s roof to view the full moon, and he hesitantly asked: “Are you scared of me? Americans see the news and so they are afraid.”

I’m not alone in having written off an entire region of the world because of isolated events. If you’re on the fence about traveling to or near a destination that has been plagued by crisis, I urge you to look closely at a map and investigate the proximity of the conflict or disaster in relation to where you plan to go. News coverage of Australia’s apocalyptic bushfires in 2019 and 2020 created a perception that the entire continent had burned to the ground. Scores of international tourists canceled their trips. In reality, the blazes affected an area the size of Wisconsin. (Australia is approximately the same size as the contiguous United States.)

Turkey is currently experiencing a precipitous drop in tourism following catastrophic earthquakes in February. Earlier this year the country’s president, Recep Tayyip Erdogan, announced a three-month state of emergency in ten provinces. After the quake, images of crumbling cities and bodies immersed in rubble circulated the globe. The quakes did devastate huge swaths of southeast Turkey, but most of the rest of the country received little or no damage.

In 2022, 51.4 million tourists visited Turkey, pumping $46.3 billion into the economy, according to tourism board estimates. The country is likely to take a financial hit in 2023 as more travelers decide to stay away. Biggs Bradley told me that she’s encouraging travelers not to abandon their plans to visit, because it needs that income more than ever. “Turkey is a huge country,” she says. “You can still visit many beautiful parts—Istanbul, Bodrum, Cappadocia—that were unaffected, and support the rebuilding efforts.”

She also believes that visitors should seek out area charities. You can give at local donation spots, such as mosques, nonprofits, or clinics across the country. Ask tourism operators whether communities are in need of specific goods that you can bring from the U.S., or which organizations are doing work that you can support. As the country continues to recover, even small gestures from visitors can have positive ripple effects.

My advice is to do your homework before canceling a trip to a troubled region. Talk to the person who manages the hotel where you’re scheduled to stay. Ask local guides or other connections you have in a country to advise you on what the situation is like. Reach out to locals via Twitter or other social media. Plan your trip with reputable outfitter, since it will track safety information constantly. Weigh all that beta in light of State Department warnings and news headlines. There may be times when it’s necessary to postpone. But if you decide that it’s OK to go, your tourism dollars can provide a huge benefit, and the trip may be even more meaningful as a result.

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In 1999, a series of earthquakes in western Nicaragua set off the 2,388-foot-tall Cerro Negro volcano outside the city of LeĂłn. For two straight days, the volcano gushed magma and spewed steam and ash, prompting evacuations in surrounding villages and crumbling parts of Leon.

“Everything around here was destroyed,” says Flora Velasquez, a lifelong resident of León. “We had nothing.”

Fast-forward 16 years, and that same volcano has helped revitalize LeĂłn as a bustling hub of adventure tourism: Cerro Negro has emerged as the top global destination for so-called volcano boarding, a dirty and sometimes dangerous activity.

Every day, visitors from around the world hike the 45 minutes up the volcano, plywood boards tucked under their arms, wearing a suit of denim, thick gloves, and protective goggles. From the northwestern corner, boarders can see for miles: tracts of green farmland on the outskirts of LeĂłn where locals grow cassava. Flanking Cerro Negro are other volcanoes on the Cordillera Los Maribios mountain range, which runs north to south for 40 miles.

Then they sit on the plywood boards, point the noses down the black, 42-degree slope, and rock forward.

As a volcano boading guide, I've led hundreds of people up—and watched them all come down.ÌęMost people conservatively slideÌęone stretch at a time, digging their heels in to brake, but the bold ones hurl themselves down the 1,600-foot slope at 50 mph. A lot of them leave with cuts and bruises—proud battle wounds. But I’ll never forget one client, a 22-year-old man from the UK, who took a tumble part way down, smacked his head on a rock, and lost consciousness. I ran over to tend to him, and when he woke up a minute later, he couldn’t remember what had happened. “I hope I had fun,” he said as I escorted him back to our car.

may sound like an odd pastime but it’s emerged as a main attraction for adventurous visitors to Nicaragua and transformed the economy of LeĂłn, a city of 210,000 residents. Ten years ago, roughly 5,200 foreigners visited LeĂłn, according to the city’s tourism office. Last year, that number increased to more than 20,000 per year. It’s no secret why.Ìę

“Before volcano boarding, the only attraction around here was the cathedral,” Indrany Aurora Cuadra Zamora, a representative from the tourism office in León says. “The main industry was agriculture. People were just selling peanuts and cotton.” Today the cathedral—Central America’s largest, built in 1814—is flanked by youth hostels catered to the volcano-boarding crowd, and tourism has become the town’s main source of income.

It all began in 2002, when French sportsman Eric Barone got the idea to attempt a record-breaking bicycle run down Cerro Negro. The volcano’s relatively smooth, ashy slopes were ideal, he thought. After reaching an impressive 107 mph on the slopes, Barone crashed, landing firmly in the hospital with a handful of broken ribs. His bike had broken in half, and he swore never to descend Cerro Negro again.

But Australian Darryn Webb, then the owner of in León, saw potential in the hill. He began testing out different vehicles of descent—a mattress, a mini-fridge door, even an upside-down picnic table. “The first and second attempt were disasters,” he says. “I fell at least 30 times and had cuts everywhere.” Eventually he settled on a simple plywood board reinforced with metal and Formica. “It was this moment I knew I had something very special and looked to turn it into a rideable board for a business,” he says.

That was 2005. Ten years later, it’s plain to see that the activity has tranformed León, says local volcano tour guide Jose Poveda. Guides, for example, make an average of $500 dollars a month—twice the average salary in León—and there are at least 30 hostels and half a dozen tour operators in town (not including independent “freelance” guides), most of which have sprung up in the past decade to serve volcano boarders. Four years ago, the Universidad Cristiana Autónoma de Nicaragua in León created an entire tourism department to study and accommodate the growing number of visitors.

But it’s not just the tourism industry that benefits. A community cooperative representing residents around Cerro Negro called Cooperativa Pilas-El HoyoÌęmanages a ranger station there that collects entrance fees from visitors. The money generates revenue for local schools, potable water deliveries, and small-scale infrastructure projects. It also is helping fund rehabilitation centers for protected species, like a local iguana.

Velasquez, who runsÌęCooperativa Pilas-El Hoyo, says locals are in the process of constructing a youth hostel near the base of the volcano. “Before everyone was just a farmer,” Velasquez says. “Now we have a better life.”Ìę

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Surfing has its own complicated mystique. Riding a wave feels magical and pure, but often, attempts end with a pummeling of salty whitewash. “Surfing is difficult because of the physical demands but also because theÌęenvironment changes every day—the swell comes from a different direction, the wind changes,” says Robert Farmer, the owner of Farmdog Surf School in North Carolina. “It’s not like basketball where the court is the same and you can perfect it by repetition. Surfing requires an understanding of the physics involved in creating a wave.” Which is why signing up for a surf lesson at one of these world-class programs for adults might be your best bet at actually catching one.

Camp Surf, Los Angeles, California

Never stepped on a surfboard before? Start at , which offers private or group lessons on the beginner-friendly breaks at Manhattan Beach. You’ll get outfitted with a rental board and wetsuit, thenÌęget schooled in the basics: paddling out, spotting a wave, and, with practice, riding one. The instructors are the best at what they do—many are former competitive surfers, lifeguards, and lifelong watermen.Ìę

Barefoot Surf Travel, Bali, Nicaragua, and Ecuador

You may want to tackle the basics before signing up for a trip with —which guides groups of surfers on tropical trips to places like Nicaragua, Ecuador, and Bali—but beginners and intermediates are welcome here. (Half of Barefoot’s campers are total surf newbies.) Sign up for a seven-day camp in San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua, where you’ll stay in a villa near numerous world-renowned breaks, or spend three weeks island-hopping in Indonesia. Either way, you’ll up your skills by the time the trip is over.Ìę

Hans Hedemann Surf School, Honolulu, HawaiiÌę

Run by former World Champion surfer Hans Hedemann, the has three locations around Waikiki and one on Oahu’s North Shore, so if you’re going on vacation to Hawaii, skip the agony of trying to teach yourself how to surf and sign up for a lesson with Hans instead. They even offer a surfing guarantee: Stand up on a wave within the two-hour lesson or ask for your money back.Ìę

Farmdog’s Surf School, Nags Head, North CarolinaÌę

Robert Farmer——has been running his own surf school on the Outer Banks of North Carolina since 2007. In addition to teaching you how to surf, Farmer and his team of instructors will also give lessons on ocean etiquette, so you don’t end up dropping in on someone else’s wave.Ìę

Paskowitz Surf Camp, Mexico and San DiegoÌę

in San Diego, California, was started by legendary surfer Dorian Paskowitz back in 1972—it’s the country’s oldest and one of the most respected surf schools. It’s now operated by his son, Izzy. Instructors are big on teaching proper skill—you’ll spend time learning body positioning on the beach before you even step foot in salt water. Or grab your passport and take their weeklong, springtime camp for beginners in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico.Ìę

CoreysWave, Montauk, New York

The sleepy fishing hamlet of Montauk, which is transformed into a full-blown New Yorker getaway each summer, when the waves are at their worst, is a low-key surf spot and a great place to learn the rest of the year. Water temps can be chilly even midsummer, so opt for a thick wetsuit. Sign up for a private or semi-private , run by longtime surfer Corey Senese, on Montauk’s Ditch Plains break, which is great for longboarders. A board, wetsuit, and booties for your feet come included.Ìę

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Icacal Beach, two and a half miles of undulating volcanic sand on Nicaragua’s southern Pacific coast, is the kind of place that gringos dream about during the winter drear. The Punta Brito cliffs frame the sunset fire that descends on the horizon every evening around six, all year long. Swelling tides crash against shoals of rocks, shooting spume into the sky.

The beach is less than ten miles up the coast from San Juan del Sur—a fishing village that has grown into a booming tourism hub—but it’s an hour and a half away by road, and there isn’t a single permanent structure in sight. When the sun goes down, darkness swallows the place within minutes, because there are no electric lights. All of which could change if the (HKND) fulfills its $50 billion pledge to build a 171-mile trans-oceanic canal across the country, starting on the Pacific side right here.

In February, I did an ass-numbing motorcycle superloop around Nicaragua to explore the route of the proposed megaproject, which is called the Grand Interoceanic Canal. Late one afternoon, I found myself racing the sun toward Icacal Beach from El Coyol, a village on Route 62 that connects the Pan-American Highway to some of Nicaragua’s choicest coastline. The road turned to dirt after El Coyol, but my 250cc Chinese Supermoto bike handled the ruts and rocks gracefully. Families in horse-drawn wagons smiled as I rattled past.

I let myself through several ranch gates before I got to a spot called Miramar, named for a hacienda on a hill. The path forked, and there wasn’t anybody around to ask for directions. I was seeking the mouth of the Brito River, near where a Chinese billionaire named Wang Jing, the 42-year-old founder and CEO of HKND, plans to build the port that will serve as the canal’s Pacific terminus.

A mile beyond Miramar, I dropped down a steep bank into a dry riverbed. On the other side the road narrowed, until I was walled in by trees and undergrowth. I’d started to turn around when I saw a boy emerge from what I thought was an abandoned shack. He shyly returned my wave.

“Donde está la playa?” I asked. He pointed down a sandy footpath. After thanking him, I rode through the forest to a camp of hammocks and tents, where a woman was cooking over an open fire.

With the sun sinking fast, I fishtailed onto the beach and soon hit hardpack sand, reveling in its smoothness after many days on potholed Nicaraguan highways. I stopped to talk to two teenage boys who were sitting on a piece of driftwood. A man in jeans and a red T-shirt rode up on an old bicycle and introduced himself. Carlos López Mena, 45, told me that he’d lived near Icacal Beach his whole life, farming a few acres of land. I asked what he knew about the canal.

“They say it will bring jobs, but all of that will only be for the engineers,” he said. “If there’s construction work, it will only be for a few months. We’re farmers. There will be nothing for us.” The teenagers nodded.

López Mena told me that the dry riverbed I’d crossed was the Brito, which drains into the ocean during the rainy season. Supposedly, construction equipment will arrive here soon to cut down the forests on either side of the river. HKND plans to pave a road directly to the Pan-American Highway, several dozen miles away, and will build an enormous beachside terminal to store supplies needed during the canal construction. They’ll use explosives and dredging equipment to deepen the seabed and the river channel to about 100 feet; they’ll also construct a wharf, nearly a mile long, that can berth three container ships at once.

Before any of that can happen, though, Nicaragua’s Sandinista-led government will have to exercise its legal right to expropriate land from citizens like López Mena who live in the canal’s path. People I spoke with all over Nicaragua told me that anticipation for the canal project has driven up the cost of land everywhere along the proposed route. And yet, López Mena says that one of the rumors floating around is that the government will force him to sell for a mere $100 U.S.

“If the land is going to be worth $4,000 in a few years, this $100 they’re offering me is a catastrophic price,” he said. “They’re robbing me. My own president is robbing me.”

Later, as I sped down the pitch-dark forest path, the Spanish phrase rolled off my tongue: un precio catastrĂłfico.

It’s impossible to overstate the scale of this project. As The Guardian’s Jonathan Watts : “Three times as long and almost twice as deep as its rival in Panama, Nicaragua’s channel will require the removal of more than 4.5 billion cubic meters of earth—enough to bury the entire island of Manhattan up to the 21st floor of the Empire State Building.”

The proposed canal will start on the Caribbean side near the mouth of the Punta Gorda River. HKND intends to dredge and blast a channel along the first 55 miles of the river’s drainage. It will build a lock somewhere in the Punta Gorda basin, flooding the forest to create a 153-square-mile reservoir called Lake Atlanta. From there it will push an additional 23 miles or so through the Tule Valley into Lake Nicaragua, where the canal will skirt past one of the lake’s most famous natural features, Ometepe Island. With the addition of a final lock, the canal will travel the last 16 or so miles to the Pacific along the Brito River drainage. Blasting and dredging will be required for the entire route, including the lake portion, to take its depth from roughly 40 feet to nearly 100.

The potential environmental consequences are immense. Among other things, scientists worry that silt from dredging, agitated by the perpetual turbidity of windy Lake Nicaragua—the largest lake in Central America and the country’s main source of drinking water—will create an anoxic dead zone that could annihilate the lake’s aquatic life and severely damage the flora and fauna along its shores. Cutting down an estimated hundreds of thousands of acres of rainforest will contribute to global warming, increase erosion, and destroy habitat for endangered jaguars and spider monkeys. There are human concerns, too. Along with unfathomable mountains of dirt and rock, the canal will displace tens of thousands of citizens.

My objective on the motorcycle trip was to talk to ordinary people, to see what nuances might be hiding behind the Sandinistas’ assurances that more than 70 percent of Nicaraguans support the canal. I arrived knowing that protests in December of 2014—in response to a ceremony marking the official start of canal construction—had triggered a fierce crackdown by police and the army. Dissenters around Nicaragua burned barricades of tires and threw stones at riot troops. According to news reports, hundreds were jailed without charges, and dozens were severely beaten. Would I find a population in the midst of similar upheaval or one that had been pacified?

I was joined by Greg Chrisman, a 43-year-old California native who runs a Pacific coast ecotourism outfit in Puerto Sandino called . Greg invited two friends along for added security. During the summer, Jared Rosa, 32, manages a restaurant in Corolla, North Carolina. He spends his winters teaching surf lessons at , an exclusive resort north of San Juan del Sur. Shawn Barylski, 40, is a retired police officer from Connecticut who was stationed on the North Shore of Hawaii as a young Navy recruit and occasionally works as a surf guide at Greg’s camp.

A month before I arrived, the police had a Belgian photojournalist named MichĂšle Sennesael, who was covering anti-canal protests in the town of El Tule. Her cameras were confiscated and never returned; with that in mind, it was a relief to have Jared and Shawn along to enhance the perception that we were nothing more than a group of dirt-caked gringo adventure riders.

Our journey began in Puerto Sandino on Saturday, February 7, with the aim of making a 225-mile sprint east across the country. We planned to reach Rama, the gateway to the Caribbean, on that first day, but everyone was a little hungover, so we missed our start window by about four hours. Jared and I each popped a Ritalin—an over-the-counter drug in Nicaragua—for extra focus in the chaos of Managua, with its anarchic taxis and median-hopping motorcycle paths. Coming out of the city’s east end, an hour or so into our trip, we were whizzing north on the Pan-American Highway, high above Lake Managua, which has the distinction of being the most polluted lake in Central America. Until 2009, when the government finally opened a treatment plant, the lake was a giant toilet, draining the waste of the capital’s 1.6 million people. The lake has also absorbed toxins, including benzene and mercury, from the hundreds of industrial facilities in its drainage.

At the town of San Benito, we stopped for fuel and a cold Toña beer. I could feel the vibrations of the engine and road still pulsing though my weary limbs. An old man tried to sell us gaudy sunglasses. People were piled on the roofs of buses and semis, and a layer of soot covered everything.

Next, we headed east on Highway 7, the Rama Highway. The Canoas Dam, drought stricken and overused, glimmered like a mirage in the cleft between two mountain ridges. With the darkness came rain and cavernous potholes, invisible in the blinding headlights of oncoming traffic. We made it as far as Juigalpa—where Daniel Ortega, Nicaragua’s president, lived briefly as a child—before stopping for the night at a guesthouse beside a gas station.

We all took a slug of Flor de Caña rum from Greg’s Nalgene bottle to celebrate completing our first day’s ride. We were snoring before our heads hit the pillows.

President Ortega, who returned to office in 2007 after 17 years out of power, has pitched the Grand Interoceanic Canal as a panacea for the country’s development ills, reviving an idea that dates back centuries. On June 14, 2013, during a in which he announced that Wang had won the concession, he said, “Our people 
 have spent so much time wandering in the desert in search of the promised land. The day has arrived.” He vowed that the canal will combat poverty and bring “well-being, prosperity, and happiness to the Nicaraguan people.”

Thirty-six years after the Sandinista revolution overthrew the brutal dictatorship of Anastasio Somoza Debayle in 1979, and 25 years after Violeta Chamorro’s election brought an end to the Contra war, Nicaragua is firmly in the hands of the Sandinistas again, and it’s now the second-poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. Only Haiti is worse off. Two-thirds of the rural population lives on less than a dollar a day.

Paul Oquist, an American who is a top adviser to Ortega, saying that the canal will expand the Nicaraguan economy by more than 10 percent annually starting in 2015. By 2018, Oquist says, canal revenues will double the country’s GDP and triple employment. HKND claims that canal construction will generate 50,000 jobs and that the completed canal will indirectly benefit 200,000 people in perpetuity.

Unfortunately, it’s impossible to know where these figures come from. HKND carried out feasibility studies in partnership with reputable international consulting firms, including McKinsey and Company, at a cost just shy of $1 billion. But none of the studies have been made public, and most of what the government says about the canal has to be taken on faith.

A startling lack of transparency has plagued Ortega’s canal project since its moment of origin, which itself remains a mystery. The best anyone can tell is that Ortega or someone close to him—possibly his son Laureano Ortega Murillo, who is the chief liaison with HKND—hatched the project with Wang in a secret meeting sometime before the summer of 2012. There was no tendering or bidding process, and there has never been any attempt to explain why Wang, an obscure telecom tycoon from China with no experience in building infrastructure, is the right person to take on one of the largest engineering projects in human history.

Unperturbed, the Nicaraguan National Assembly rubber-stamped a series of laws in 2012 and 2013 that created a Nicaraguan Canal Authority and granted a sweeping concession to HKND. (The concessionaire is a Wang subsidiary called—no joke—the Developer of Grand Infrastructures Company.) Under the terms of the Master Concession Agreement, which was signed on June 23, 2013, HKND gets the exclusive right to construct the canal and to collect the majority of the profits from it for a period of 50 years. After that, HKND can renew the concession for another 50 years or hand the canal over to the Nicaraguan government. Throughout the concession period, HKND won’t pay a cent in taxes or customs duties. It will pay a fee of up to $10 million per year for the first decade of the concession, minus a vague “fee adjustment amount” that HKND deems accountable to the government.

Wang’s annual $10 million pledge appears to have bought him a lot more than the right to dig a trench across the country. He’ll also be able to pursue numerous subprojects: an international airport, deepwater ports on both coasts, free-trade zones, highways, a new railway, an oil pipeline, and a nebulous item labeled “Umbrella Project.”

Virtually anything could find shade under Wang’s umbrella. HKND has already said it plans to build golf courses and resorts on some of the country’s most valuable real estate. And the Nicaraguan Canal Authority will use its legal power to expropriate private land on behalf of HKND. Not just land along the canal route, but any land that HKND deems necessary for the implementation of its subprojects, anywhere in the country. Ortega has essentially given Wang and HKND eminent domain over Nicaragua for a century.

Mónica López Baltodano, an environmental lawyer and director of the , told me that the concession is a severe blow to Nicaragua’s sovereignty. Nicaraguan law will not apply inside project areas, and neither will Chinese law. (Wang insists that he has no ties to the Chinese government.) HKND will contract its own security, and the firm is reportedly in talks with the Russian military to handle the job. According to Baltodano, the Central Bank of Nicaragua guarantees the project—meaning that HKND can recoup funds from national reserves if it can blame any failures on political conditions in Nicaragua. Finally, the concession obligates the government to create new laws or change existing ones, including the Political Constitution, whenever “necessary or desirable to facilitate the success (economic or otherwise) of each Sub Project.”

All this for a canal whose economic viability is very much in doubt, since there’s no clear need for it and the Nicaraguan government hasn’t released any information about anticipated revenues. Maersk, the world’s largest shipping enterprise, has flatly said that the canal “is not something we have a demand for, and we’re not able, at this point, to tell whether we’ll use it.” Ortega has said that the Nicaraguan canal’s greater depth will allow it to handle the largest ships currently under construction for the global fleet. But those ships aren’t going to see service in the Western Hemisphere, so the new canal would be filling a demand that doesn’t exist.

Meanwhile, the Panama Canal—which is less than one-third the length of the proposed Nicaraguan canal—is nearing the end of an eight-year, $5.3 billion expansion. The upgrades should allow it to serve all shipping interests in this region for the foreseeable future. The Panama Canal, which was completed in 1914, generates about $1.4 billion in annual profits. So even if the Nicaraguan canal stole all of the Panama Canal’s business, it would take 35 years for HKND to recoup its original investment.

We left Juigalpa the next morning, and I pinned the throttle through the cool air and green fields of Chontales, the cattle-producing heartland of the interior. I stopped in Santo Tomás to let the other guys catch up. The food stalls and produce market were thrumming. A young Creole in a digital-camo jacket and shorts walked up and said, “Hey, man, where you from?” I told him I was American and that I was trying to get to Rama and then Bluefields. His name was Tony, and he said he was from a town called Kukra Hill, about 20 minutes by boat from Bluefields. I’d heard that the ferry from Rama to Bluefields, up the Escondido River, took ten hours, and I asked Tony if it was possible to ride a motor-cycle all the way to Kukra Hill instead and pick up the ferry there.

“Yeah, it’s about 70 kilometers from Rama,” he said. “When you get there, look for a woman named Miss Nini. She can help you.”

Once the others caught up, we ate a quick breakfast and pressed on to Rama, where a policeman gladly hopped on his motorbike to show us the way to the Kukra Hill road. He left us on a deeply pockmarked dirt track beside a sign that read KUKRA HILL 72 KM. The softball-size rocks should’ve been enough to send us running for the ferry, but sheer ignorance inspired us to keep going.

We arrived in Kukra Hill more than three hours after leaving Rama. Caked with grime and drenched in sweat, we rode standing up and cruised the main drag. We had no problem finding a kid to show us where Miss Nini lived. We pulled up in front of a dirt yard surrounded by a chain-link fence. A deer with furry antlers was foraging beside sunning dogs and a crazy-looking monkey on a string. Miss Nini walked out and acted as though she’d been expecting us for a while.

“Yes, I know Tony,” she said, looking at us sidelong before rearing back in a belly laugh. From that moment on, Miss Nini—age 67 and born Isabelle Puchi—was the perfect host. She told us how to get to the docks and offered to let us store our bikes at her house overnight. We laid a plank on the front steps and walked them right into the foyer.

“Anyone who wants to try to take them will have to get through me,” she said, flashing a toothless grin. I offered to pay her, but she said, “Maybe someday I’ll come to America and you will help me find my way. The world is small, never large.” She told us who we needed to look up in Bluefields and called a taxi to take us to the ferry. A few minutes later, we had Toñas cooling our hands as we drifted the lazy bends of the Kukra River.

Named after a 17th-century Dutch pirate, Bluefields is unmistakably Caribbean. On the afternoon we arrived, everything was sticky with the humidity of the tropics, smelling of decay. Gone were the jeans, neat mustaches, and hand-tooled leather belts of the ranch towns to the west. The fashion here was a blend of hip-hop and beach: basketball shoes, baggy shorts, ball caps with crisp brims, jerseys, flip-flops. Locals of all ethnic backgrounds bantered in an English patois of truncated words, hard consonants, and rounded vowels.

The city of about 49,000 and its surrounding enclaves are home to Rama Indians, as well as mestizos and Creoles. Because of its isolation, the region was sheltered from the nastiness of the Somoza era. Ironically, it was the Sandinista victory in 1979 that really turned things upside down on the Caribbean side. The Sandinistas sent soldiers to occupy Bluefields, expropriated foreign companies, and initiated land reforms that forced Indians onto state-sponsored cooperatives, determined which crops they could grow, and fixed prices.

Simultaneously, the Sandinistas’ growing pariah status internationally brought the once thriving Bluefields port to a standstill. The economic agony was amplified by rationing that further alienated the locals. Thousands of indigenous people fled to Costa Rica and Honduras. The CIA did its best to co-opt as many of the discontents as possible into the Contras, which, to put it mildly, didn’t make things better for anyone.

The situation improved in 1987, when the Sandinistas granted regional autonomy to the indigenous people of the Caribbean coast as a peace gesture. In 2003, indigenous rights expanded further with the passage of Law 445, which granted communities sovereignty over huge tracts of communal lands and waterways. The canal project threatens to undo that hard-won independence.

“The Americans are the ones that put the canal into the minds of Nicaraguans. They put it there over a hundred years ago,” Rayfield Hodgson told me. The 67-year-old pastor and longtime politician was in an armchair, his hands folded across his paunch, in the sitting room of his home in Bluefields.

If the current canal plan goes through, Bluefields will become the closest major town to the Caribbean entry port, which will be located near Punta Aguila, a tiny Rama Indian fishing community, roughly 30 miles away, that sits amid coastal mangrove estuaries. We traveled to Bluefields to get a sense of the Caribbean perspectives on the project, and Hodgson—whom I’d heard about from Miss Nini—was the right man to ask: he’d served as mayor of Bluefields in the early years following the Sandinista takeover in 1979, and he was governor of the South Atlantic Autonomous Region from 1994 to 1998.

In his Caribbean-accented English, perfected during years at a seminary in upstate New York, Hodgson told me how the Caribbean region had long ago been a British protectorate called La Moskitia, but that the British abandoned Nicaragua in the late 18th century to avoid competition with the U.S., at a time when the U.S. was increasingly determined to build a canal across the country.

“The British disengaged with us and left Nicaragua to protect us,” he explained. “And of course you can’t give the rat the cheese to protect. He’s going to eat it. We were invaded by our protectorate”—meaning the Spanish-speaking government in Managua, which has always seemed like a foreign presence to people in this part of the country. This area’s relationship with the Pacific side and Managua has varied at times from outright military occupation to total abandonment, a trend that persists today. “But the canal idea remains,” Hodgson said.

In the 1990s and early 2000s, Hodgson was involved with a group that tried to build a path for a freight railroad, often referred to as the dry canal, across the country. The Nicaragua Interoceanic Canal Company even won a 40-year concession from the administration of then president Arnoldo Alemån in 2001. Hodgson traveled to China, Europe, Canada, and the U.S. to court investors. But Enrique Bolaños, who took office in 2002, refused to grant the permits required for feasibility studies, and the dry-canal idea died like all canal dreams before it.

When I first found Hodgson, at about 6 p.m. on a Sunday, he was seated in a pew close to the front in the Maranatha Vineyard Church, which he founded and where he serves as head pastor. Services were under way, and the pews were full and rowdy, thanks to a visiting preacher from Jamaica, a tall, stringy firebrand who hurled exhortations at the congregation over a loud PA system. Once we were outside, I asked Hodgson what he thought of the sermon. “Well, he sure knows how to scream,” he deadpanned.

Hodgson was of two minds about Ortega’s canal. “It remains a dream,” he said. “It’s nothing new to stir up that dream. Most of the Nicaraguans, the greater majority, would like to have a canal built. The problem is that they would like it to be built, but not with the Sandinistas, because it will strengthen their regime and make them very difficult to overthrow. They will be in power probably a hundred years if they can do something like this.”

Despite the risk of cementing Ortega’s authoritarianism, Hodgson remained pro canal. “I do not see anything that could change the Nicaraguan economy so radically,” he said. “We are below Third World. They don’t even have a number for us or a name. We should be Fourth World. Nicaraguans are all in Panama, they’re in Costa Rica, doing cheap manual labor for those countries. It would be good for them to stay home and take care of their own families.”

Still, Hodgson said he would prefer that the government focus its efforts on the immediate needs of poor communities through achievable projects. One would be a paved road from Bluefields to Nueva Guinea, giving Bluefields access to the rest of the country and lowering the cost of living.

“The next thing we need desperately is running water,” he said. “Water that people can drink is a necessity here in this city. Surrounded with water and have no water? It’s stupid.”

On the Pacific side of Nicaragua, canal dreams are as deeply embedded in the cultural psyche as the face of Augusto Sandino, who longed for a canal as a means of liberating Nicaragua from American imperialism. They’ve been handed down through the generations since at least the time of the earliest Spanish colonial administrators, who wrote excited letters to the crown about the possibility of linking the Caribbean to the Pacific by way of the San Juan River and the lake.

In the 19th century, the U.S., France, Belgium, Germany, and Britain all vied for canal concessions. At the close of the century, steam made massive engineering projects and ocean travel feasible on a previously unimaginable scale, and the U.S. government resolved once and for all to build a canal.

In 1896, Nicaraguan president JosĂ© Santos Zelaya signaled his government’s willingness to lease the required water passages and land to the U.S., and Congress created a Nicaraguan Canal Commission in 1897, which completed an extensive survey of the San Juan River. Unfortunately for Nicaragua, events were already in motion that would make a competing route in Panama—then part of Colombia—impossible to resist.

A French company’s attempt to put a canal across the malarial jungles of the Panamanian highlands had ended in spectacular failure in 1889, at a cost of more than a quarter of a billion dollars and the lives of 22,000 laborers. The company’s bankruptcy left a railroad, a partially built canal, and hundreds of millions’ worth of construction equipment up for grabs. The U.S. bought everything for $40 million, along with the concession from the Colombian government. A significant contingent of congressmen still preferred the Nicaragua route as late as 1902, when Congress was preparing to vote on the Spooner Act, which would authorize funding for the Panama project. But it passed easily, and in 1904, with the help of a little Rooseveltian gunboat diplomacy to liberate Panama from Colombia, the construction effort got under way.

A century and some change later, the differences between Panama and Nicaragua are starkly visible in their capitals. Bristling with skyscrapers, Panama City is a center of international commerce at the crossroads of the world. Managua is a hot and dusty warren of two-story buildings without addresses. At around $20,000, the Panamanian per capita GDP is more than four times Nicaragua’s. Panama has its canal and all the complex infrastructure to go with it. Nicaragua doesn’t even have a coast-to-coast highway.

It would be too simple to attribute Panama’s relative prosperity to the canal alone—Panama has also been more stable politically—but that’s exactly what Ortega and his backers seem to be doing. Paul Oquist put it simply: “We need a way out of poverty. The canal will provide this.”

Maybe. One of the unanswered questions is when and if canal construction will actually begin. The clock started ticking at the groundbreaking ceremony on December 22, 2014, but nothing other than symbolic shoveling has happened yet. The government has only claimed, implausibly, that construction will take five years.

On the morning of our second day in Bluefields, Shawn set out to look for extra straps to secure our gear more firmly to the rear fenders of our bikes. Greg, Jared, and I headed to the docks to hire a panga to take us to Rama Cay, the island headquarters of the Rama Indian community. On the wharf, workers unloaded sacks of rice and banana seedlings from barges fresh in from Rama. Jehovah’s Witnesses handed out copies of The Watchtower to disembarking ferry passengers. On the other side of the street, an elderly woman sold cups of NescafĂ© to men on their way to work.

Greg found a panga pilot, and we launched into the fog-shrouded bay. Dugouts and sailing canoes plied the overgrown banks, silhouetted in the fog. Bluefields Bay looks more like a lake than an estuary on the border of the sea. It’s breadth disguises its shallowness. In most places, you could jump out and simply stand.

When we arrived at Rama Cay around nine, at least one member of the unofficial welcoming committee was already half in the bag. We’d barely introduced ourselves when a man in a tank top offered me a soda bottle filled with chicha, a homebrew made from fermented maize. I took a deep pull. It was good, but it would’ve been better after breakfast.

Overgrown with hardwoods and palms, Rama Cay rises out of the lagoon to a height of maybe 50 feet. The first thing you notice as you approach are the board houses hanging out over the water on stilts, their picturesque look belying the island’s poverty. There is no running water or plumbing here. The wells go dry in summer. The island’s health center has only one nurse on staff and lacked electricity until three years ago.

One might assume that the Rama Indians would be eager for the developmental benefits that Ortega has been promising, but Santos Hernandez McRe, 31, who serves as a representative on the Regional Council’s Commission for Environmental Resources, told me that most Ramas oppose the canal, because the concession violates the indigenous protections enshrined in Law 445 and the Caribbean autonomy laws of the 1987 Political Constitution.

“The law says clearly that for a project to happen in an indigenous community, on the communal property, they have to do a prior formal consultation with the indigenous villages,” he said. “In this case, the government hasn’t done it. They aren’t obeying the law that exists here in Nicaragua.”

McRe said he doesn’t have any hope that the canal project will create jobs for Ramas, because there are no skilled laborers in the community. The chief concern is that the canal will destroy the Ramas’ traditional fishing culture, which is the bulwark of their community, woven into their spirituality and communal life.

McRe also fears that large ships will make traveling by panga and canoe extremely dangerous in the canal channel, and that the perils of crossing from one side to the other on open water will create an invisible wall between indigenous communities. As he spoke, his children hung over the railing on the balcony of his house.

“The canal will divide us,” he said. “The moment they build the canal, this culture, this tradition of navigating the sea and the forests, going fishing and hunting—this will all disappear.”

On December 23, 2014, demonstrators erected a roadblock in the town of El Tule, east of Lake Nicaragua, to protest the canal and land expropriation. By the time the military finally broke things up in the early hours of Christmas Eve, 50 protesters had been injured. During our ride back west, we passed through El Tule en route to San Carlos, where we planned to take an 80-mile ferry ride to Ometepe Island. It was as tranquil as you’d expect a town in the middle of nowhere to be. The Tule Valley stretches into the biosphere reserves between the interior and the Caribbean, and it’s where HKND plans to bring the canal into Lake Nicaragua.

We had a few minutes to spare, so I stopped and spoke with a rancher named Adolfo Orozco Vallejos. We sat in plastic chairs at the gate to his ranch house, with pigs and chickens scratching in the yard. Vallejos, 59, owns roughly 1,360 acres of grazing and forest land, and he has good access to water. He said he’s not worried about the canal project, even if it might require him to sell out. He pointed at a spot down the highway where the canal is supposed to pass and said he was pretty sure he’d have to give up at least part of his land. But Vallejos seemed to think he would be able to negotiate the sale price, and he quoted figures between $5,000 and $8,000 per manzana (about 1.7 acres) that would be acceptable to him.

“The first option would be to subdivide, if they didn’t need all of my land,” he said. “The rest I’ll keep, and I will work alongside the canal. It will be like I won the lottery.”

What Vallejos and I didn’t know at the time was that the Master Concession Agreement—which, oddly, was initially published in the National Assembly’s gazette only in English—stipulates that the government will purchase land on behalf of HKND at the tax-assessment value, not the market value. Tax assessments are done by the government and are not subject to negotiation, which opens the door to artificially low figures that would benefit HKND.

To my surprise, Vallejos derided the protest movement that centered on El Tule, calling it a political stunt. He insisted that most of the protesters came from far away, from Managua and even LeĂłn, near the Pacific coast.

“These demonstrations are designed to manipulate people into being ideologically against the government,” he said, “and they are manipulating poor campesinos who are illiterate and easy to fool.” Vallejos dismissed the protesters’ claims to be defending the lake and land from environmental damage, arguing that the damage there has already been done. “If you have the opportunity to go into the interior, into the places where these forests are supposed to be, there is not a single tree,” he said. “It’s already been entirely clear-cut.”

I’m not sure where Vallejos got his information, but he was following the government’s talking points to the letter: the Chinese will pay a fair price for the land, the protesters are outside agitators with nothing at stake, and there is no environment to protect because it has already been ruined.

We made the 2:15 ferry in San Carlos just in time and took advantage of the open upper deck to stretch out on our gear for a nap. Right before sunset, we pulled up to the wharf at San Miguelito, which we’d passed on the way to San Carlos. Sailors with AK-47’s inspected baskets carried by women who went aboard to sell snacks to the passengers.

At one point, the canal was slated to pass right through San Miguelito’s pristine wetlands. Recently, under pressure from a German NGO, HKND agreed to move the route to avoid them. But it will be impossible to avoid Lake Nicaragua altogether. The likelihood of severe environmental damage did not bother our captain, 58-year-old Juan Pablo Rosales Zacharia, who grew up in the cockpit of a ferry with his father at the helm. The hydraulic steering whined as he talked.

“The protesters are just poorly informed. They don’t have good information,” Zacharia said, taking a softer line than Vallejos. “I’m 100 percent sure the canal will change my life, because it will bring more people to the lake from Nicaragua and even Costa Rica. They’ll need many more boats during the construction, and that will mean more work for all of us.”

Zacharia was an Ometepe native, born and raised in Altagracia, where we docked just after midnight. Even so, I didn’t find another person on the island who shared his optimism.

On a clear day, you can see the perfect basalt cone of the ConcepciĂłn volcano towering 5,600 feet above the lake. ConcepciĂłn is active and often spews smoke. Its fraternal twin, Maderas, occupies the southeast half of the island. Between the two volcanoes lies the IstĂ­an River, a swampy waterway that connects the two shores during the rainy season. At an ecotourism outfit on Ometepe Island called , I hired a guide named Willy Barrios to take me on a kayak tour of the estuary.

As we paddled up the shoreline of the island, a kingfisher landed on a mangrove branch. “They are very shy,” Barrios whispered. No sooner had the words left his mouth than the bird disappeared in a flash of green. A squawking flock of wild parakeets swarmed around a tall mangrove blooming with orange flowers. “The farmers hate them because they eat all of their seeds,” Barrios said with a laugh.

We paddled slowly under mangrove branches and into the swamp, skimming inches above the muddy floor. A howler monkey rested high in a tree, and various birds put on a show. Within minutes I’d seen a whole flock of giant storks alight from their roost in an ash tree, and I was almost close enough to touch tiger herons, egrets, ibis, cormorants, and blue and green herons.

Barrios, 24, the youngest of seven children, grew up on MĂ©rida, the pueblo where Caballitos is located. He said he wanted to study biology in college and come back to Ometepe to work in conservation or ecotourism, but he was worried that the canal construction might ruin the IstĂ­an and other places like it.

Ruben Rivera, 46, stands to lose even if the canal doesn’t go through. He owns the , on 70 acres of beachfront near the base of Concepción. HKND has realized the scenic value of Rivera’s location and has made tentative plans to build a “Volcano Sightseeing Resort” complex that could swallow his land and half the remainder of the island.

Rivera’s father ran cattle and grew plantains on the land where the Finca Charco Verde hotel now stands. It’s one of 14 converted farms that participate in Ometepe’s Fincas Verdes program, which commits them to sustainability goals. Over a couple of cups of black coffee in the hotel’s open-air grand palapa, which overlooks the lake, Rivera told me that his business has grown rapidly with the surge in Nicaraguan tourism over the past decade, but that he’s waiting to see what happens with the canal project before he moves forward with investing in an expansion.

“I’d like to build new rooms and a swimming pool, but I don’t know if the Chinese are going to take the land,” he said. The Chinese, he explained, are probably in the same boat: no one wants to invest in the project until the controversial land expropriations are a done deal.

Dressed in shorts, boat shoes, and a peeling souvenir T-shirt from San Marcos, Florida, Rivera didn’t look like a real estate mogul, but he said he might give it a try if he’s forced to sell his land. “If they pay me justly for my property, then I’ll figure out what I’ll do after that,” he said.

“It’s just one more problem,” he added. “Nicaragua has so many problems, this is just one more. Different, but the same.”

Elliott D. Woods () wrote about gray wolf reintroduction in February.

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You're in the pastiest grips of winter, but all is not lost. These destinations are perfect for last-minute escapists. In no time at all you'll be upping your Vitamin D intake while bombing a volcano, riding empty breaks, or even cycling around an island paradise.

Bomb the Trails in Maui, Hawaii

Among the Hawaiian Islands, Maui has the trifecta of accessibility (direct flights from West Coast cities), climate (the North Shore gets just 18 inches of rain per year), and adventure ( is a geological moonscape with ‹a 10,000-foot volcano). The best way to enjoy it: on knobby tires.

Base yourself in the small upland town of Makawao and crash at the (cottages from $155). ‹That puts you adjacent to Bike Park Maui, a new 80-acre terrain park created by Paul Turner, the founder of RockShox. ‹Just down the road is , where owner Moose will set you up with a bike, maps, and trail reports (rentals from $35).A ten-minute drive (or 45-minute uphill ride) from the shop is , where 28 miles of recently upgraded singletrack weave through canopy rainforest, including a Whistler-style flow section. Then there’s Maui’s ultimate ride: bombing down the slopes of Haleakala on the 19-mile . Commercial shuttles are prohibited in the park, so your crew will need to rent a second car to leave at the end, near Kula. The trail drops 7,000 feet from the bone-dry summit, passing through high desert, forests of native koa and Spanish pine, and lush pastureland.

Surf Empty Beaches at Rancho Santana, Nicaragua

Nicaragua’s Pacific coastline has the same waves as neighboring Costa Rica, but without the crowded lineups. , a two-hour drive south of Managua (direct flights from Houston, Miami, and Atlanta) is a 2,700-acre resort community where you can rent a villa or stay at a new inn opening in March. The property sits on two miles of coastline with five distinct beaches.Playa Santana, steps away from the clubhouse, offers a consistent beach break, plus swimming and tuna fishing (board rentals from $25 per day). Playa Los Perros, a short drive from the inn, has a renowned reef break that peels both ways.Or go for total privacy at Playa Duna, an isolated beach that requires a ten-minute drive (or 20-minute bike ride) and a rocky scramble, but rewards the effort with dramatic rock formations and a 50-foot dune.

When there’s no swell, the resort has yoga, horseback riding, and guided mountain-bike tours to a nearby hot spring. Just make it back in time for dinner at , the property’s farm-to-table restaurant, with produce grown on-site. From $249.

Find Solitude in Tulum, Mexico

It’s no longer the overlooked and bargain-priced gem it used to be, but it’s still got white-sand beaches, turquoise water, and a stunning Maya temple, all just a 90-minute drive from Cancun, which can be reached by direct flights from dozens of U.S. cities. The key is to avoid the spring break hordes, which take over in mid-March, and know where to escape the crowds the rest of the year.

Your best bet for guaranteed solitude is a guided trip into the Sian Ka’an biosphere, a 1.3-million-acre Unesco World Heritage site that features tropical forests, mangroves, and marshes along one of the largest barrier reefs in the world. Picture the Everglades, but with ancient ruins, clear lagoons, and spider monkeys. Maya-owned runs daily trips that can be customized to include bird watching, archaeology, snorkeling, and kayaking (from $55).

There are tons of great dining and lodging options, but we’re partial to , a beachfront boutique hotel that serves spear-caught fish grilled over a wood fire and is located next to a dive shop (from $165), and , where in-the-know travelers line up for local Maya dishes.

Ride the World's Best Roads in Gran Canaria, Spain

It takes a full day of flying to get here—you need to stop in Madrid—but the journey is worth it. February and early March are the shoulder season on this Spanish island off the coast of Morocco, when daytime temps hover around 70 degrees and you’ll have some of the world’s best road biking mostly to yourself. Pro cyclists train on Gran Canaria in winter because they can climb from sea level to 6,000 feet on perfect pavement with little traffic in glorious weather.

Several outfitters offer packaged riding tours of the island, but you can have more fun on a free-spirited DIY trip. Get a high-end bike and route tips from in Maspalomas, which also offers guided group rides ‹six days a week (rentals from $20, guided rides from $60).

Set up camp 20 minutes to the northwest at the (from $300) in the fishing village of Puerto de Mogán, where you’ll have immediate access to a number of classic routes, including the Valley of Tears, an 80-mile loop that climbs 9,800 feet at an average grade of 10 percent—and a maximum of 25.

Swim Where No One Is Watching in Dominica, ‹West Indies

Dominica is among the least inhabited and least visited Caribbean islands, partly because two-thirds of it is rainforest. Beaches are scarce, the snorkeling is mediocre, and there are no golf courses. Which is fine: you come here to trek remote trails and swim in secluded spring-fed pools.

There are no direct flights from the U.S., but it’s only a two-hour flight from Puerto Rico, on Seaborne Airlines (tip: book directly with the carrier). From the oceanside (from $158), in the capital of Roseau, it’s a 15-minute drive to the village of Laudat, access point for Morne Trois Pitons National Park and the 115-mile Waitukubuli National Trail, which bisects the island from north to south. The full walk takes about two weeks, but from Laudat it’s just a half-mile to Titou Gorge, where you can swim in crystal-clear water through a narrow volcanic slot canyon to a waterfall. Continue on for five forested miles through the Valley of Desolation, with its sulfur rivers and volcanic vents, to Boiling Lake, where the water is heated to 180 degrees by magma. A guide is strongly recommended for the ($75).

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While the mercury drops and polar vortexes close in yet again (just kidding—we hope), remember that there are still places in the world where the water isn’t bone-chilling and the breezes are gentler. These seven destinations boast great paddling alongside tropical fish, stunning resorts, and cheerful residents (because who could blame them?).

Go Multisport in Malta

This 121-square-mile island south of Sicily—and its smaller satellites, Gozo and Comino—are pure gold for athletes. The Euro-pean Development Fund recently invested $1.4 million in more than 600 miles of cycling and mountain-biking routes in the Maltese Islands and Sicily. From Malta, take the 25-minute ferry ride to ($7), rent a mountain bike at ($17), and ride a 27-mile circumnavigation past Neolithic temples, stone villages, and the crashing Mediterranean Sea. For climbers, there are on the three islands and countless deepwater-soloing options. Divers can explore 100 major shore- and boat-diving sites, including the off Gozo, a Jacques Cousteau favorite. Stay at the , a former private townhouse on Malta’s Spinola Bay with 44 rooms and a rooftop pool (from $132).

St. Lucia Surf and Turf

One of the coolest things about the 300-acre Anse Mamin Plantation at the (from $420) is its impressive network of singletrack, designed in part by former world-champion mountain biker Tinker Juarez. With steep switchbacks and giant descents through a forest of fruit trees, Juarez’s three-mile loop tops out with a panoramic view of the famed Pitons. Anse Chastanet’s two beaches border pristine coral reefs for snorkeling and diving and harbor more than 150 fish species. For a one-way, old-school Caribbean sailing trip, start in St. Lucia’s Rodney Bay and take ten days to make your way to Grenada via the Grenadine Islands and their stunning moorings. 44-foot monohull, or add a skipper for $185 per day (from $7,529 for up to ten).

Stay Close at Caladesi Island ‹State Park, Florida

Just north of Clearwater Beach on the Gulf of Mexico, this three-‹mile spit of white sand is worlds away from the frenetic pace of the mainland. Accessible via ‹your own boat or a ferry from ($14), Caladesi is a haven for nesting sea turtles and shorebirds like American oystercatchers. Hike the three-mile Hammock Loop, kayak a three-mile circle through the mangroves, or cast a line for flounder, redfish, or snapper. ‹The 108-slip marina (day-use permits are $6 per boat, $2 per kayaker; overnight mooring, $24) has a small cafĂ© for snacks. Otherwise it’s BYO everything. There’s no camping on shore, ‹but day-trippers with saltwater experience can rent a 16-foot outboard from ($275). Or has a captained 53-foot boat that sleeps six (from $3,000).

Travel Back in Time (to Ometepe Island, ‹Nicaragua)

This 171-square-mile Eden in the middle of Lake Nicaragua didn’t have electricity until the late 1980s or phone service until the early 2000s. And a bull-drawn cart is still the preferred mode of transportation for local farmers. Magical things happen on Ometepe, thanks to the island’s two volcanoes, ConcepciĂłn and Maderas. Hike 4,573-foot Maderas, with a 100-plus-foot waterfall and a swimmable crater lake, then soak in the nearby hot springs at Ojo de Agua. You’ll find pre-Columbian petroglyphs everywhere, including at , a small lodge on the slopes of Maderas ($10). offers 20-minute flights on its 42-passenger planes from Managua to the island’s tiny La Paloma airport every Thursday and Sunday ($100 round-trip). Stay in the bungalows at on two-and-a-half-mile-long Santo Domingo beach (from $70).Ìę

Unplug at Tobacco Caye, Belize

With a year-round population of only 30, this palm-fringed, five-acre islet is part of the Southwater Caye Marine Reserve, a 117,878-acre offshore wonderland for divers, snorkelers, and kayakers. The draw here is the Belize Barrier Reef, ‹a Unesco World Heritage site just a few strokes off the island with a thriving turtle population and more than 500 fish species. Sign up with for five days of boat excursions to sites like Shark Cave, the Blue Hole, and Glover’s Reef Atoll, with accommodations in seaside, solar-powered rooms (from $1,000, all-inclusive). Kayakers can join ’ six-night, lodge-to-lodge Paradise Islands kayak and SUP journey, which winds through the South Water Caye Marine Reserve ($1,779). On Tobacco Caye, you’ll stay at Paradise Lodge, a collection of over-water bungalows.

Score a Deal in Lefkada, Greece

The one benefit of Greece’s ongoing financial crisis is that the country still offers the best vacation bargain in Europe. Some of its most beautiful beaches are on Lefkada, a 117-square-mile island connected to the mainland by a floating bridge. From the iconic white-cliff-ringed sand at Porto Katsiki to the quaint fishing village of Agios Nikitas, there are dozens of options. Take advantage of the strong northerlies with a kite- or windsurfing lesson off (from $175), or hike 20 minutes down a steep cliff to secluded Milos (warning: clothing optional). Head inland to climb 3,799-foot Stravrota and mountain-bike the roads and singletrack that wind through olive groves (, $16). Average hotel prices are $100; there are also numerous rental options, including a in the village of Vafkeri, with a private pool and a stunning view of Skorpios, the island once owned by Aristotle Onassis (from $160).Ìę

Splurge on Manta Island Resort, Pemba Island, Tanzania

Welcome to the ultimate tropical paradise, where the marine life is abundant and a private floating cabana lets guests sleep 15 feet underwater. Seriously. This sleek, Swedish-designed suite has a rooftop deck to laze in the sun and stargaze, a waterside deck for dining on the Swahili-spiced catch of the day, and an underwater bedroom with windows for watching barracuda swim by. After a night or two in the cabana, spend the rest of your trip in one of the resort’s breezy seafront villas. Fill your days diving at nine nearby sites, where you’ll see Red Sea sweetlips and large-eye squid while sailing on a traditional dhow carved from a mango tree, or combing the nearby forest for the Pemba flying fox. Floating suite, $1,500; other rooms from $495. For a custom trip with an added safari option, book with .Ìę

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“All-inclusive” used to be synonymous with sprawling mega-resorts that catered to the masses. They were large, impersonal, and generic. And they were tantalizingly easy. Paying a single fee up front gained you access to a rare enclave where money never changed hands. There were honeymoon suites and babysitters on hand; all-you-can-eat buffets; and a long, if predictable, list of activities to keep you and the small city of other guests busy. Culture and nature took a backseat to convenience and predictability. They were like cruise ships that never left port.

These places still exist, of course (and if this is your thing, check out enormously popular, family-friendly properties across the Caribbean). But thanks to a recent surge in small, boutique properties, “all-inclusive” is now truly all-inclusive, offering wilderness and true adventure, in remote locations shared with only a handful of other travelers. The following three lodges specialize in custom, nature-based vacations, where you and your family will be treated like family—without being slapped with a lot of extra fees for activities, guides, food, and, well, extras.

The Tropical Base Camp: Slickrock șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs, Belize

Sixty-five miles offshore from Belize City, is ultra-minimal by design: 15 open-air, thatch-roof cabanas fringe the beach and the turquoise waters of Glover’s Reef. You won’t find air conditioning, maid service, Wi-Fi, flush toilets, deep mattresses, or a saltwater pool (unless you count the ocean) anywhere on the 13-acre island, but if you like your tropics laid-back and natural and packed with action, this is definitely the place. When I was last there, pre-kids, in the late ’90s, I spent my days kayaking the calm waters inside the atoll and surf kayaking just offshore. Since then, they’ve added a vela, or windcenter, stocked with windsurfers and kiteboards, a full complement of surfboards, and even a dry land trainer for teaching newbies to windsurf. You can scuba, surf-cast from your kayak, or just lounge in the hammocks or beachside all day. The island is wind- and solar-powered, and home cooked meals are served buffet-style in the sand-floored dining palapa—no shoes or fancy table manners required.

Kids Included: Although many of Slickrock’s guests are solo travelers or couples, families fit right in, and kids especially will dig the Castaway-style isle. Children three and older are welcome, and although there is no designated kids’ program, those who are too young to paddle can ride along in a tandem or sit-on-top; there’s also a cache of sandcastle equipment and a well-loved beach volleyball court. Slickrock is happy to help arrange for a full-time, on-island babysitter (for just $25 per day, including housing and meals). Note to landlubbers: The boat trip takes three hours, but less than an hour of that is through open seas, so plan accordingly if you or your little ones get seasick.

Coordinates: Five-, six- and nine-night all-inclusive adventure packages cover roundtrip transport to Long Caye aboard the lodge’s 41-foot power boat, three meals per day, unlimited beverages (including beer), all island activities (including guides) and sports instruction, and use of all equipment. Scuba diving and kitesurfing are extra. Adults from $1,325; kids 3 to 6 from $795; kids 7 to 11 from $1,060.Ìę

The Big Sky Splurge: The Ranch at Rock Creek, Montana

Horseback riding to the top of the world for a picnic lunch, guided fly fishing on some of the state’s best trout waters? Check, check. Sleeping in a swanky tented cabin on the banks of Rock Creek. Ditto. Impromptu huckleberry milkshakes after lunch? Yup. Bowling, darts, billiards, and big-screen Westerns in the family-friendly Silver Dollar Saloon? Such is the sweet life at , an ultra-luxe outpost at 5,200 feet in southwestern Montana. But this is not your typical family dude ranch: Owner Jim Manley scoured the Rocky Mountains for 20 years looking for the perfect setting amidst high peaks, with a river running through it, and an authentic cowboy culture. He found it on this sprawling, ten-square-mile parcel of meadows and mountain outside of Philipsburg, and proceeded to create the ultimate, spare-no-expense adventure ranch. Guests live close to nature without roughing it in ten stylish, canvas-walled tents that call to mind the finest African safari camps, or nine private log homes, some original to the 130-year-old cattle ranch and impeccably restored. And forget the family-style, checkered tablecloth eats you’d find at other western dude ranches: RARC delivers fine, fresh, seasonal dining—think Montana lamb and local trout—without the fuss.

Kids Included: The Little Grizzlies Kids Club wrangles to children ages four to 12, with morning and afternoon pleasers like horseback riding, nature walks, and archery. Kids are also welcome to join their parents for guided hikes, biking, fishing, swimming, and stagecoach rides—and you won’t have to convince them to tag along with you on the half-day mission to Philipsburg, home of the world-famous candy shop, The Sweet Palace, and its addictive huckleberry fudge.

Coordinates: RARC is about an hour from the airport in Butte, and fewer than two from Missoula. Rates are per person and include lodging all food, drinks, activities, guiding, and gear from the Rod & Gun Club (whitewater rafting, town trips, heli-hiking, and massages at the Granite Spa are extra). Adults from $850 per night; children 0 to 2 free; kids 3 to 12 from $700 per night.Ìę

Your Own Private Island: The Lodge at Little St. Simon’s Island, Georgia

With seven miles of beaches for 32 guests, there’s plenty of untrammeled sand on to go around. Except for the six guest cottages and main lodge, the rest of the 10,000-acre, family-owned barrier island just off the Georgia coast is virtually all undisturbed wilderness: woodlands, marshes, mangroves, and beach. Not surprisingly, there is more wildlife here than people: deer, alligators, armadillos, dolphins, and more than 280 species of birds. Roam the island on your own on foot or by bike (supplied free) or head out on a guided hiking, birding, wildlife-scouting, kayaking, beach-combing, or fishing trip with the lodge’s naturalists. Book a one- or two-bedroom cottage with screened porches and outdoor showers, or bed down in the hundred-year-old Hunting Lodge, where meals are served family-style, with fresh produce from the island’s organic farm.

Kids Included: With a full range of nature-based explorations, the Lodge has options for the whole family. Borrow the bikes and ride two miles to Main Beach, look for loggerhead turtle nests, play in the surf, and kayak the mangroves—if you’re feeling especially energetic, all in one day.

Coordinates: Roughly halfway between Jacksonville and Savannah, off the Georgia mainland, Little St. Simon’s is accessible only by private boat. This is included in the cost of your stay, as are all meals, drinks, activities, gear, and guides. Doubles from $500 per night; additional children from $100 per night.Ìę

Also Consider:

Ìęon Nicaragua’s Pacific coast is that rare breed of high-end hotel that doesn’t try to dominate the landscape but instead immerses you in it. Fifteen gorgeous, screened-in hardwood bungalows flank a cliff overlooking undeveloped Playa Blanca, with kid-friendly waves and a full complement of kayaks and boogie boards. Sleep to the sound of crashing waves, and wake to huge views of the Pacific. Lodging and three meals a day, sourced straight from the sea and the lodge’s organic farm, are included in your stay. Activities and guided nature tours are extra. From $223 per person per night; children 11 and younger from $79 per night.

At , a 19th century ghost town-turned-micro-resort in the San Juan Mountains of southern Colorado, 13 meticulously restored mining cabins curve around a grassy meadow and trio of natural mineral pools, perfect for soaking your bones after a day of mountain biking, hiking, or fly fishing. Bonfires, lawn games, and nature walks will make little guests feel right at home (guided expeditions cost extra). All meals and drinks, served in the historic Saloon, are included in your nightly rate. One- to five-bedroom cabins from $600 per night.Ìę

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