We found out back in Cusco that our new travel friends Jon and Stephanie had unknowingly signed up for the same post-Machu Picchu excursion as us — a bus tour from Lima to explore Peru’s southern coast. The plan was simple: a boat tour of the Paracas National Reserve followed by a visit to the desert oasis of Huacachina.
We were on the bus by 6 a.m., after it made the rounds picking up travelers from hotels all around Lima. Spirits were high and caffeine levels low as we set out for Paracas, a small coastal town best known for its wildlife and stunning rock formations.
Halfway there, though, our guide got a call: high winds had canceled all boat tours for the day. So much for the sea lions and the islands. When we rolled into Paracas, we were told we had four hours to explore a town that wasn’t exactly built for four hours of exploration. The bars weren’t open yet (cruel fate), the beach was okay at best, and super windy, and every land tour was booked solid. We were, in short, stranded.
Time to make lemonade.
After some quick Googling, we discovered that the only thing open nearby was a Pisco distillery. The catch? They only communicated via WhatsApp—and only in Spanish. So there we were, piecing together messages about whether they’d take visitors that day, if they allowed 13-year-olds, and where exactly they were located. Somehow, with a mix of Google Translate and optimism, we got a yes.
Now we just needed a ride. We talked our way into a taxi number from the front desk of the hotel where the bus had dropped us off. The taxi arrived, but within minutes it was clear that wherever the hotel thought the distillery was… wasn’t where the distillery actually was. Cue a spirited bilingual back-and-forth in the middle of the Peruvian desert, with our friends tracking us on Google Maps like a slow-moving rescue mission.
Eventually, we made it. The distillery host kindly made sure our taxi would wait to take us back, and we started our visit with — what else — Pisco cocktails. Even Charlie tried one and declared it “not terrible.” We sampled several batches, then wandered the vineyards with our drinks in hand while our guide led us entirely in Spanish. I did my best to translate, until she kept referring to “uva.” Charlie came to the rescue: “That’s grapes, Dad.” Of course it was — we were standing in a vineyard.
The whole experience felt like a Peruvian blend of Napa and Bardstown — the tradition, the craft, and the hospitality. We bought a few bottles for the next leg of our trip, found our taxi still waiting, and headed back to Paracas just in time to grab a quick bite before the bus arrived. Next stop: Huacachina.
We thought we were signing up for a dune buggy ride, but our guide kept asking if we were going to “ski.” That’s when curiosity kicked in. When we arrived in Huacachina — a surreal little oasis surrounded by massive dunes — we were dropped off at a hostel to wait for our group. Amy quickly decided that “hostel” was a word she never wanted to see on a reservation again, though the backpacker scene looked fun from afar.
Charlie and I were sent to a local ski shop (yes, a ski shop in the desert) to get fitted for boots and skis. The gear had clearly seen better days, and I was handed a big stick of wax with the warning, “You’ll need this.” Duly noted.
Once our group was ready, we hiked up to where rows of massive dune buggies were parked — each big enough for fifteen people. The moment the engines roared to life, we were swallowed in clouds of sand. If the guide suggested bandanas and sunglasses, it’s because they were absolutely necessary.
The ride was pure adrenaline: flying over dune peaks, dropping into sandy valleys, holding on for dear life. Charlie and I were grinning ear to ear. Amy… not so much. Sand in your teeth has a way of dulling the thrill.
Eventually, we stopped on a high ridge just as the light began to change. The landscape looked like something straight out of Star Wars — endless golden dunes and a pinkish-orange horizon. We took photos, climbed around, and then got ready for the main event: desert skiing.
Amy opted for the sledding route, while Charlie and I strapped on our gear. We waxed up our skis (a lot), pushed off… and immediately realized why desert skiing hasn’t quite caught on. The sand stripped the wax clean within seconds, slowing us to a crawl. Take too many turns, and you’d stop mid-run and have to hike back up in ski boots — a special kind of workout.
But still — skiing in the desert of Peru? Totally worth it.
After several runs (and just as many wax breaks), we watched the sun set over the dunes, the sky glowing orange behind the oasis. We said goodbye to our friends, who were staying overnight, and found our way back to the bus for the long trip to Lima — one final cab shuffle and a small bribe later, we made it back to the Costa del Sol, exhausted but still laughing about the day.
Sometimes the best travel days are the ones that don’t go according to plan.